Date: 2016-04-22 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; High Fantasy; Magic; Adventure; Demons; Ghosts
Description: Caina Amalas has found the lost relics of Iramis, but with the relics comes deadly peril. For Grand Master Callatas is ready to work his terrible Apotheosis, and all he needs to unleash the dark power of the nagataaru is the Staff and the Seal of Iramis…once he takes them from Caina’s dead hands. Yet if Caina and Callatas do not work together, they are doomed. For the last of the fearsome Great Necromancers, Kharnaces the Heretic, laid his sinister trap long ago, and its jaws now close around his former pupil Callatas. Unless the mighty sorcery of Kharnaces is defeated, he will unmake the worl
Publisher: Azure Flame Media, LLC

GHOST IN THE PACT

Jonathan Moeller

Description

Caina Amalas has found the lost relics of Iramis, but with the relics comes deadly peril.

For Grand Master Callatas is ready to work his terrible Apotheosis, and all he needs to unleash the dark power of the nagataaru is the Staff and the Seal of Iramis…once he takes them from Caina’s dead hands.

Yet if Caina and Callatas do not work together, they are doomed.

For the last of the fearsome Great Necromancers, Kharnaces the Heretic, laid his sinister trap long ago, and its jaws now close around his former pupil Callatas. Unless the mighty sorcery of Kharnaces is defeated, he will unmake the world in his dark designs.

Starting with Caina and Callatas…

Ghost in the Pact

Copyright 2016 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published April 2016.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

A brief prologue

“The Staff of Iramis. The Seal of Iramis.” Kalgri smiled and lifted a peculiar bronze compass. “Would you like to know where they are?”

Grand Master Callatas stared at her, incredulous.

The madwoman who called herself Kalgri was one of his first experiments with binding a nagataaru to a living human body. The experiment, alas, had not been particularly successful. She could not harm him or rebel again him, but neither could he compel her to obey him. Nevertheless, she had proven an effective tool against his enemies.

Though given the mountains of corpses she left in her wake, sending her to kill his enemies was a bit like burning down a house to catch a rat.

“Where?” said Callatas at last, anger pulsing through him. He didn’t have time to waste with the Huntress’s games. A century and a half of work in Istarinmul was in danger of coming undone, and he…

“Caina Amalas has them,” said Kalgri, still smiling.

“Caina Amalas!” spat Callatas, incredulous. “That Ghost schemer and spy? The so-called Balarigar? Do you seriously expect me to believe that she found the regalia of Iramis when I could not?”

Kalgri’s smile never wavered, her eyes like chips of blue ice. “It is as ridiculous as believing that she could deal with Cassander Nilas when you could not.”

A wave of pure fury went through Callatas, the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis whispering inside of his head. He wanted to strike that smile from her face, to unleash his power and blast her to ashes…

He restrained himself. He had spent so long trying to save humanity, and he would not lose everything in a fit of childish pique.

That, and he wasn’t sure that he could kill her.

For that matter, she was right.

Callatas had severely underestimated Cassander, and the Umbarian magus had almost destroyed Istarinmul and wrecked Callatas’s preparations for the Apotheosis.

Perhaps Callatas had also underestimated Caina Amalas.

The shadow of Kotuluk Iblis raged within him, just as it did whenever he considered that damnable Ghost woman. The sovereign of the nagataaru wanted her dead. Given that Caina had eluded the Huntress, destroyed the Inferno, had apparently located the lost regalia of Iramis, and Kotuluk Iblis himself wanted her dead…perhaps Callatas had been a fool not to deal with her himself.

Very well. He would not make the same mistake twice.

“Fine,” said Callatas. “Where is she?”

“Within the city,” said Kalgri, lifting the compass.

“That compass,” said Callatas. “I recognize that. Some fool made it to find the nearest valikarion. What use is that? I killed all the valikarion when I burned Iramis.”

“Quite true,” said Kalgri, “but Cassander’s mistakes turned Caina into a valikarion, the first to walk the world since Iramis burned. He didn’t heed my counsel either, and look what happened to him. I do hope, father, that you shall not repeat his…”

Again Callatas’s temper flared.

“I am not your father!” he snarled. Kalgri had once been the chief of his household slaves after he had fled Iramis and abandoned the loremasters. She had murdered and slept her way to the top of the household slaves’ hierarchy, and so it had amused him to use her for his first experiments in summoning nagataaru.

So in turn it amused her to call him “father”, likely because she knew it annoyed him.

But Callatas had no children. He would not bring any children into this blighted, diseased world, not until the old humanity had been swept away and the new humanity put in its place. “Do not ever call me your father. I…”

“Do you want to rage over petty insults,” said Kalgri, “or do you want to remake the world?”

Callatas fell silent, turning to gaze at the damaged city of Istarinmul. Smoke still rose in a dozen places throughout the city from the colossal circle of fire Cassander had conjured. From what Callatas had learned, Cassander’s spell had wiped out the Teskilati and someone had slaughtered the masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood in the chaos. Istarinmul was crippled, and Grand Wazir Erghulan might not be able to stand against Tanzir Shahan and his rebels.

“We must consider how to act,” said Callatas at last, “coldly, rationally, and calmly.”

“That is the smartest thing you have said in decades, father,” said Kalgri.

Callatas decided to ignore that. He stared at Istarinmul, at the maze of palaces and slums and bazaars and temples and docks. The city disgusted him. It showed the corruption of civilization, the degradation and erosion of mankind. Callatas would repair it, would find a better path for humanity.

But only if he solved his current problems, of course.

He needed the Staff and the Seal. He also needed to deal with Tanzir’s rebels, and prevent them from seizing control of the city until Callatas could work the Apotheosis. Above all Callatas had to prevent the rebels or Nasser or anyone else from finding the Padishah. Callatas needed Nahas Tarshahzon, Padishah of Istarinmul, to remain alive until the Apotheosis was ready.

The Padishah…or at least one of his blood.

That could be arranged readily.

Kalgri waited as Callatas formulated plans.

The Staff and Seal he would take himself, and he could deal with the so-called “Balarigar” at the same time. As for the rebels, Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku, Master Alchemist Rhataban, and the remaining Immortals could handle them. Though their fate was almost immaterial. Once Callatas claimed the relics of Iramis, he could work the Apotheosis in short order.

Then he could sweep away the rotting corpse of civilization and raise something better in its place.

The shadow of Kotuluk Iblis murmured its approval at the thought.

“Very well,” said Callatas. “This is how we shall proceed.”

Chapter 1: Secrets In Plain Sight

Caina Amalas needed a ship, and for the first time in her life, she couldn’t find one.

It was infuriating.

During the two years of her exile in Istarinmul, thousands of ships had entered and departed the city’s Cyrican Harbor and Alqaarin Harbor, more ships than Caina could count, ships carrying goods from every nation and empire and kingdom under the sun. Istarinmul sat at the narrowest part of the Starfall Straits, the only passage between the Cyrican Sea and the Alqaarin Sea, which meant half of the world’s commerce had to sail past Istarinmul to reach the other half. The Padishahs of Istarinmul had waxed fantastically wealthy from tolls and trade, and despite the small size of its realm and army, Istarinmul remained a major power among the nations.

Yet for the first time that Caina could remember, likely for the first time in centuries, there were no ships in Istarinmul’s harbor.

Given that Cassander Nilas’s voice had boomed from a rift of golden fire in the sky, threatening to set all Istarinmul ablaze, killing every man, woman, and child in the city, perhaps it was not surprising that the ships had fled the harbors. Cassander would have carried out his threat, would have murdered hundreds of thousands of people in an instant, had Caina not tricked him and had Kylon not taken off his head with a sweep of the valikon.

So Caina could not blame the ship captains for fleeing. They would be back, she knew. Nothing ever stopped trade for long, not even sorcerous catastrophes.

But the ships might not be back in time to save Istarinmul.

She felt the ticking of time as keenly as an itch, almost as if an unseen archer had an arrow trained between her shoulder blades. Kalgri knew about the relics. Kalgri had likely known about the Staff and the Seal ever since Annarah had escaped from the Inferno. The only reason she hadn’t informed Callatas was to first kill Caina, and she had almost succeeded.

Her encounter with the Red Huntress in the Corsair’s Rest had become part of Caina’s regular roster of nightmares.

But Caina was still alive, and Nasser still had the Staff and the Seal of Iramis…and there was absolutely no reason, none at all, for Kalgri to withhold the truth from Callatas any longer.

She had probably told Callatas already, which meant that any moment Caina might find herself facing Immortals, nagataaru-possessed assassins, or even the Grand Master himself. Callatas wanted the regalia badly enough to come for it in person.

Likely the only reason he had not already done so was the paralyzing shock still gripping Istarinmul. Any moment, Caina knew, the storm would erupt, but not quite yet. Best to take the Staff and Seal of Iramis and be gone by then, to secure them in Catekharon and then return to aid Tanzir and the rebels against Callatas.

But to do that, she needed a ship, and there were no damned ships.

Caina stood on a pier and gazed into Istarinmul’s Cyrican Harbor.

The empty harbor.

When she had first come here two years ago, every pier had been stacked with cargo, and thousands of gray-clad slaves toiled along the waterfront, unloading and loading the ships. Now every single pier was empty, the waters beyond the harbor clear of sails, the waterfront was almost deserted. It was one of the eeriest things Caina had seen, as if Cassander’s spell had burned away Istarinmul’s people instead of its buildings.

Her three companions seemed just as unsettled by the sight.

Though of course Morgant the Razor expressed his discomfiture by talking.

“Two hundred and five years I have lived,” said Morgant, his black coat snapping behind him in the breeze rising from the harbor, the shirt beneath stark and white and crisp, his Caerish accent giving his voice a sharp burr. He was a gaunt man who looked about fifty-five, his hair iron-gray and his eyes blue and cold and pale. At his belt hung a sheathed scimitar and a dagger with a red pearl in the pommel. Caina’s altered perceptions saw the auras of sorcerous power within the weapons. “Two hundred and five years I have lived, many of them in Istarinmul. How often have I seen the harbor empty?”

“How often?” said Caina.

“Never,” said Morgant. “Not once. Not before today. It is,” he searched for a word, “unprecedented.”

“The Teskilati are destroyed,” said Caina. “The Slavers’ Brotherhood slaughtered. Half of Istarinmul is in revolt against the Grand Wazir. I think we’re about to see a lot of unprecedented things.”

“Best to be gone,” said the man next to Morgant, “by the time they happen.”

Kylon of House Kardamnos, once an Archon of New Kyre and now an exile like Caina, stood taller than either Caina or Morgant. He had the lean, muscled build of a master swordsman, and he wore clothes similar to Caina’s, leather armor over a tunic, trousers, and dusty boots. He had brown eyes and brown hair over a face that was just a bit grim and weary, and sometimes Caina wanted to just look at him, or to sit by him while she ran her fingers through his hair…

She dragged her mind away from such pleasant thoughts.

The blaze of white fire her altered sight saw around the valikon strapped to his back helped focus her mind.

“Kyracian,” said Morgant. “We’ve already lived through unprecedented times. What’s a few more?”

“There is going to be violence,” said Kylon. “I can sense it in the emotions of everyone we meet. They are still in shock from the circle of fire, but once the shock wears off, they will remember what Cassander said. They will blame Erghulan and Callatas. There might well be riots. This city is stuffed with tinder, and all it needs is a spark.”

Caina shivered despite the blazing heat of the Istarish sun. People were going to die when Erghulan put down the riots. Once Caina would have blamed herself for those deaths, but she knew better now. She could not save everyone – and if she had not acted, then Cassander would have killed everyone in the city.

Morgant snorted. “We save the city from getting burned down, and then Erghulan will burn it down anyway? That’s just bad manners.”

“Perhaps we should move on,” said the woman standing on the other side of Morgant. Annarah was tall for a woman, almost as tall as Kylon, with dark skin and bright green eyes. She looked to be in her thirties, yet her hair was a bright shade of silver. The hair and eyes were distinctive, and Caina had finally despaired of convincing Annarah to dye her hair. The last loremaster of Iramis had settled for donning a nondescript blue dress and matching headscarf, which mostly concealed her hair. “If there are no ships to be had here, perhaps Nasser and Laertes had better luck at the Alqaarin Harbor.”

“Maybe,” said Caina. With the war between the Empire and the Umbarian Order, the Alqaarin Sea was contested between the Emperor and the rebel magi. There had been a corresponding drop in ship traffic, as merchants elected for the overland route to avoid both Imperial and Umbarian privateers, and what few ships that remained had fled Cassander’s wrath.

A wave of pure frustration went through Caina.

If there had just been one ship left in the harbor! They could have set sail for Catekharon by now and taken the relics out of Callatas’s grasp forever. The only ships left in Istarinmul were the galleys of the Istarish navy, waiting in their fortified harbor below the Towers of the Sea. Caina had tried to think of a way to hijack a galley, but they were simply too well defended.

“I still say we should go on foot,” said Morgant. “You shiftless young people. No stamina for walking. You expect to sail everywhere. In my day we walked everywhere, and we grateful for the opportunity…”

“No,” said Caina. “No, we have to put the relics someplace where Callatas cannot reach them. We can’t even take them to Tanzir and the rebels. Callatas could find the regalia easily enough there. The Staff and the Seal have to go somewhere where Callatas cannot steal them.”

Morgant snorted. “We should have left the damned things on Pyramid Isle, then. Callatas would never have gone there.”

“No,” said Caina at once. Her skin crawled at the mention of Pyramid Isle. She remembered the gloomy shadows of Kharnaces’s tomb, the undead baboons creeping through the jungle, the hideous green light of the great Conjurant Bloodcrystal.

The necromantic poison threading its way through her veins inch by inch, killing her.

“She is right,” said Annarah. “We could not have left the relics there. Leaving them in the hands of a Great Necromancer of Maat would be as bad as delivering them to Callatas himself.”

“We had best go,” said Kylon. “Nasser said he would meet as at the Desert Maiden by noon. Perhaps he had better luck finding a ship.”

“Yes,” said Caina, shaking off her dark thoughts of Pyramid Isle.

“The midday meal at the Desert Maiden,” said Morgant. “At least if we fail to secure the relics, the food at the tavern will kill us so quickly that we won’t live long enough to regret it.”

“Don’t eat the food, then,” said Kylon.

“You surprise me, Kyracian,” said Morgant. “You’ve been in enough wars. A fighting man needs to eat when the opportunity presents itself.”

Kylon rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he fell in next to Caina. His presence comforted her. The day they had met, she and Kylon had tried to kill each other repeatedly. Then they had become allies, and then friends, and then exiles together in Istarinmul, and then lovers.

Now she never wanted to be parted from him. She wanted to go with him someplace far from Istarinmul and Callatas and the war between the Empire and the Order.

Yet she was a Ghost of the Empire, and she would not shirk her duty, so Caina left the docks, leading the way to the Alqaarin Quarter on the other side of Istarinmul.

###

Kylon’s eyes swept back and forth over the streets of the Old Quarter, watching for any signs of danger.

To his dismay, he saw several.

The Old Quarter was one of the more respectable districts of Istarinmul, home to the merchants and magistrates who were not quite wealthy enough to live in the Emirs’ Quarter or the Masters’ Quarter. The houses were built of whitewashed stone, sturdy and tall. Begging and vagrancy were forbidden, and the watchmen made regular patrols through the wide streets.

Except Cassander’s spell had wiped out the Crows’ Tower, the headquarters of both the watchmen and the Teskilati, and the watchmen had fallen into disarray.

With every step Kylon felt eyes upon him. The merchants and magistrates had barricaded themselves in their houses and halls, armed with crossbows and clubs. Men were but water in the end, and the sorcery of water let Kylon sense the emotions of those around him. He felt the fear and tension and uncertainty in the houses lining the street, the merchants bracing themselves to face whatever fresh catastrophe the future might bring. He felt the emotions of those next to him. Morgant’s sense was hard and cold and wary. Despite the man’s tendency to ramble, his watchfulness never wavered, and he was never more than a half-second from violence. Annarah’s sense was a mixture of concern and fear.

From Caina he sensed nothing. It was as if she was not there at all. That was one of the aspects of the valikarion. They could see sorcerous power, but they were immune to spells of sensing and detection. Spirits could not see them. He knew Caina was not entirely happy about her new abilities, but without them, they might not have been able to stop Cassander from destroying Istarinmul.

Her brilliant, buzzing mind would turn those abilities into effective weapons, just as she had done for many other things.

It took a considerable amount of concentration to keep his spell of sensing extended over so large an area, but Kylon kept at it. His senses would give ample warning if someone tried to attack them, whether assassins or Callatas’s minions or simple robbers.

It would give him a few extra seconds to protect Caina.

He looked at her, her cold blue eyes distant with thought. She wore the disguise of a caravan guard, leather jerkin with steel studs, dusty boots and trousers, a ragged brown cloak, sword and dagger hanging at her belt. Her black hair hung in greasy curtains around her face. It was an effective disguise. Anyone looking at her would see only another caravan guard. They wouldn’t see the beautiful woman beneath the disguise.

Kylon had, and he had fallen in love with that woman.

He had been in love before. He had loved his wife Thalastre, and her death had almost ruined him. Yet it was different with Caina. There was a wild intensity to it, almost like madness. Something about her had drawn him, something about her determination or her unyielding courage. Maybe it was because they had both been in so much danger together.

Morgant had mocked him, saying that he was a romantic fool to fall for the dangerous madwoman and her doomed plans. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth to that. Kylon had lost his sister to her own folly, Thalastre and their unborn child to the Red Huntress’s malice. He had almost lost Caina to the Red Huntress’s cunning, and he had risked everything to save her.

If anyone tried to hurt her, they would regret it.

Morgant began talking again, a long, rambling anecdote about how he had assassinated some minor Anshani anjar or another. Annarah listened with calm patience. She was perhaps the most levelheaded woman that Kylon had ever met, and he had yet to see Morgant rattle her.

“What are you thinking?” said Caina.

He blinked at her. “You don’t know?”

She smiled a little. “I’m not the one with water sorcery.”

“That lets me sense emotions,” said Kylon. “Not read minds. You’re the one who can read minds.”

She grinned, as she often did when he teased her. “I cannot read minds.”

“You can,” said Kylon. “You already know what I’m thinking. You’ll say something like ‘by the angle of your frown and the kind of dust on your boots, I deduce that you just came from the Cyrican Bazaar, and therefore ate pita rolls for breakfast, and…’”

“I do not,” said Caina, “talk like that.”

He stared at her.

“Sometimes,” she conceded.

He smiled. “So what am I thinking?”

Her own smile faded. “You’re worried about an attack, and I know that because you’ve extended your sensing spell. I know that is hard for you, because you sense so many emotions at once, and you told me how hard it was for you to learn the necessary control as a child. But it will give you a few extra seconds of warning, so you do it.”

Kylon shook his head. “That’s exactly right.” He laughed a little. “How did you get to know me so well?”

“Ark used to say that you don’t really know a man until you’ve gone into danger together,” said Caina, “and we’ve gone into a lot of danger together, you and I.”

“True,” said Kylon. “No secrets left, I suppose.”

“Well,” said Caina, her voice dropping further, “after some of the things we’ve done, there shouldn’t be.”

He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her mouth against his, the warmth of her body pressed against him.

“No,” said Kylon. “And…”

He frowned as a wave of anger and fear and hate washed over his senses. He looked around, half-anticipating an attack. Off the street a small plaza opened before a merchant hall, and a large crowd had gathered there, armed with clubs and spears. They confronted a hakim in ceremonial robes, two Immortals in black armor guarding him.

“The taxes must be paid!” shouted the hakim, but even without the sorcery of water, his fear was obvious. “Regardless of what has happened, the…”

“Liar!” roared a man in the crowd.

“Aye!” shouted another. “The Grand Master and the Grand Wazir sold us to the Umbarians! If they want their damned taxes, they can come collect the money themselves!”

The crowd roared in agreement. There was fear in their sense, but more anger than fear. Cassander’s final spiteful speech had claimed that Erghulan Amirasku and Callatas had joined the Order and betrayed Istarinmul, and everyone in the city had heard that speech.

It seemed Cassander’s lie had been believed.

“Well, well,” said Morgant. “Our fat lord Tanzir will have many friends waiting for him when he besieges the city.”

“He wasn’t that fat,” said Annarah.

“He’s lost weight,” said Caina, her voice distracted. “But we had better get out of here. If this turns into a riot, I don’t want to get sucked into it.”

Kylon nodded, and Caina led the way from the plaza, taking a circuitous path through the alleyways of the Old Quarter and the Tower Quarter. Several times they saw groups of men waiting in doorways, prepared to rob hapless passers-by, but one look at Kylon’s hard expression and Morgant’s cheerful, skull-like grin, and wariness flooded over their emotional sense.

That wariness probably saved the lives of the would-be thieves.

They crossed the Alqaarin Bazaar, half the buildings still damaged from the fighting. In the distance wisps of smoke still rose from the mansion that had housed the Umbarian embassy. Lord Martin had burned the building before withdrawing back to the Imperial embassy in the Emirs’ Quarter.

A few minutes later they came to the Desert Maiden.

It was a seedy-looking tavern in a street off the Alqaarin Bazaar, and it looked shabby even by the overall low standards of Istarish taverns. The tavern catered to caravan guards, teamsters, porters, and the others who serviced the endless caravans coming to the city, and rented rooms to the prostitutes who serviced the caravan workers. Caina had told Kylon how she had started her infiltration of the Widow’s Tower from there, and Cassander had almost caught here there on the day they departed for Pyramid Isle.

Caina pushed open the door, and Kylon and the others followed her inside. The common room was almost full, men hunched at the wooden tables and benches, nursing cups of cheap wine or cheap brandy. A dying fire crackled in the hearth, and the emotions in the room felt like a field of brambles. He sensed shock and rage and grief from the men gathered in the tavern. Likely some of them had lost friends and family when Cassander’s burning circle had ripped its way across Istarinmul. It reminded Kylon of the emotional aura after a battle, of shocked men looking around the carnage, stunned that they were still alive.

On the other hand, it also reminded him of the emotional aura of an army just before a battle.

Istarinmul was indeed about to explode.

“You’ve got money?” growled one of the two bouncers standing by the door, former gladiators by the look of them. “We’ve got no room in the house for beggars.”

Caina didn’t look at the man, but her left hand flicked, and a silver coin jumped from her fingers. The bouncer caught it, made the coin disappear, and then nodded. Two men sat at a table in the corner, their postures casual, yet Kylon noted how they watched the room. The first man was in his fifties, with receding gray hair and the solid build of a man who had survived a term of service in the Emperor’s Legions. He wore mail and had a broadsword at his belt, the heavy shield of an Imperial Legionary propped against the wall. The second man had darker skin, his head shaved, a close-cropped beard framing his lips. He wore dark clothing, including a bracer and a leather glove over his left hand.

Behind him a leather-wrapped spear rested against the wall. Kylon would not have given it a second look under most circumstances, but he knew that if he focused his arcane senses upon the weapon, he would sense the titanic power hidden beneath the leather. The spear was in fact a staff of odd silvery metal, and it was one of the two relics that Callatas wanted more than anything else in the world. The Seal was hidden beneath the spearhead itself, secured in the iron socket.

According to legend, the Staff of Iramis could summon vast numbers of spirits from the netherworld, while the Seal of Iramis permitted its bearer to command those spirits. Kylon had never seen the relics used, and if he could work his will, they would be locked up with the Sages of Catekharon before anyone could ever use them.

“Ah,” murmured Nasser Glasshand. “Welcome. Please, be seated. There is no coffee, alas, but the wine is not especially offensive.”

Laertes grunted. “Don’t eat the food, though.”

“High praise,” said Kylon, sitting next to Caina on the bench.

“Since that is one of the two most valuable things in Istarinmul,” said Morgant, glancing towards the Staff, “is it really a good idea to leave it there?”

Nasser shrugged. “It would not be any more secure in my hand. If you can think of a safer place, I shall gladly entertain suggestions. Often the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”

Morgant made a sour grunt but said nothing.

“That is the dilemma,” said Caina. “There is no place safe in the city. Not in Istarinmul, and not in the Empire or Anshan. It has to be Catekharon…”

“Concerning that,” said Nasser, “I have some good news.”

Caina leaned forward. “You found a ship.”

“Yes,” said Nasser. “One came into the Alqaarin Harbor early this morning. One we’ve used before.”

“The Eastern Fire?” said Caina.

“No,” said Nasser. “Captain Murat and the Sandstorm.”

Kylon scowled. He remembered the Alqaarin corsair and his motley crew quite well. After Kharnaces had poisoned Caina, Murat threated to leave Caina on Pyramid Isle, believing that she had contracted some kind of plague. Caina had talked her way back onto the Sandstorm, but if she had not, Kylon might have wound up killing most of the corsair captain’s crew.

“What is he doing here?” said Kylon. “He has a massive price upon his head.”

“It seems our intrepid captain noticed all the ships fleeing Istarinmul and decided to investigate,” said Nasser. “Likely he expected to find Istarinmul in the grips of civil war, and hoped to indulge in some looting. He is at no risk of being captured, I expect. Anyone in a position of authority who is still alive is facing substantially larger problems.”

“He’s willing to sail for Catekharon?” said Caina. “Has he ever been there?”

“Yes,” said Nasser, “but he has never been to Catekharon. Nevertheless, he is willing, and he has a fast ship. I suspect Captain Murat has made himself unwelcome in most of the ports of the Alqaarin Sea, and therefore finds the thought of sailing to the Cyrican Sea and the western ocean most appealing.”

Kylon snorted. “If he tries to turn to piracy in the western ocean, he will regret it sorely the first time he attacks a Kyracian ship.”

“We need to get to Catekharon,” said Caina. “If Murat is willing to sail for Catekharon, then we should take his ship. The gods know we have delayed here too long already.”

“I agree,” said Annarah.

Kylon sighed. “So be it. Though I think you promised Murat that you would tell him where you obtained your throwing knives.”

Caina smiled. “If he gets us to Catekharon in one piece, I’ll buy him an entire set from Nerina. We should go at once.” She tapped her pack. Kylon knew that the pack held everything she need to leave the city in a hurry if necessary, including her shadow-cloak and her remaining eight vials of Elixir Restorata.

“Alas,” said Nasser. “Murat refused to depart the city until tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?” said Caina. “That’s too long. Give him more money.”

“No sum would change his mind,” said Nasser. “He wishes to take on supplies, and to allow his crew some liberty. I fear Murat is the best we shall find, unless we are willing to wait longer.”

Caina shook her head. “We’ve waited too long already. If not for Cassander, we might be halfway to Catekharon by now.” She gripped the edge of the table, and then at last shook her head. “No. You are right. This is the best we will do. We’ll sail out with Murat tomorrow.”

“Capital,” said Nasser. “We may as well wait here. I have secured rooms for us on the top floor. We can leave before dawn and join the Sandstorm.”

“Agreed,” said Caina. “I don’t like waiting here with the relics. But they would be no safer anywhere else in Istarinmul.”

“Yes,” said Morgant.

Kylon looked at the old assassin. He had been uncharacteristically quiet since entering the Desert Maiden. Usually he would have taunted Nasser once or twice by now, or made a ribald joke about Kylon or Caina, or generally made an annoyance of himself. Yet he had been quiet, and even as Kylon looked, Morgant rose.

“Where are you going?” said Annarah.

“I’ll be right back,” said Morgant, and he crossed the common room and went into the street.

Chapter 2: One Last Time

Morgant strolled into the street, but as soon as he stepped away from Desert Maiden’s door, he burst into a run. Caina would almost certainly be following him, and he didn’t want to talk about this with her just yet. Morgant had secrets, and he kept his word.

No matter what he had to do in order to keep it.

Running would have been useless. Caina sometimes let her heart do her thinking, but despite that flaw she was as clever as anyone he had ever met, and Morgant had met a lot of clever people. She knew all the tricks and subterfuges, and no matter what Morgant did, he would leave a trail for her to follow, or some tiny clue she could use to work out his whereabouts.

She knew all the tricks, but so did he, and he had been doing this kind of thing since before she had been born.

Morgant ran at the Desert Maiden’s wall as fast as he could. He jumped, kicking off the wall, and propelled himself upward. Like most of the buildings in the Alqaarin Quarter, the Desert Maiden had been constructed of whitewashed brick, which offered plenty of handholds and footholds. Morgant scrambled up the wall, his arms and legs screaming with the strain, and heaved himself through the open second-floor window he had spotted from the street.

He landed in a small, malodorous bedroom, the floorboards warped with age. A narrow bed rested against one wall, currently holding a drunken man in the rough clothes of a teamster. The teamster blinked at Morgant, his bloodshot eyes trying to come into focus.

“My wife’s brother,” said Morgant. “I owe him money. Needed to get away. Sorry about coming in through your window.”

“Eh?” said the drunk. “My wife’s brother was the same way, damn him. Always going on about how I need to make more money.”

Morgant offered a sage nod. “Then you understand.” He got to his knees and took a quick look over the edge of the window. Caina stood in the center of the street, looking back and forth to see where he had gone. If she happened to turn around, it was possible the vision of the valikarion would allow her to see the sorcerous aura of his weapons. Best to be gone by then. “Thank you for your discretion.” He edged along the wall, dropping a coin onto the bed. “Have a drink or three on me.”

The drunk managed a nod, scooping up the coin. “I’ll do that. I’ll do that! Good man. Good man.”

Morgant nodded, slipped out the door, and headed towards the stairs leading down to the common room.

Mazyan awaited him there.

Morgant had known Mazyan for seven years, since before Rezir Shahan had launched his ill-advised war upon the Empire, since before Callatas had first started manufacturing wraithblood from the corpses of murdered slaves in his secret laboratories. In those seven years, Mazyan had not changed. He was still squat with the musculature of an experienced blacksmith, his face locked in a perpetual scowl behind his bushy black beard. He still wore chain mail and carried a scimitar at his belt.

Of course, given what Mazyan really was, it didn’t surprise Morgant that the man had aged very little.

“Assassin,” said Mazyan.

“Oath Shadow,” said Morgant. It was the man’s proper title, though the word in Istarish was long and convoluted and difficult to get past his teeth.

“You yet live,” said Mazyan.

“Well,” said Morgant. “You know me. I just keep going and going and going…”

“Certainly you must be referring to your oratory,” said Mazyan.

“I know a few people who would agree with you,” said Morgant, thinking of Caina and Kylon. He wondered what they would make of his sudden disappearance. Perhaps he could make his way back before too long. He had promised to help Annarah, and Morgant the Razor kept his word.

Yet he knew that Mazyan, bodyguard of the poet Sulaman, would not be here unless something had gone very wrong.

Of course, calling Sulaman a “poet” was a bit like calling Morgant a “painter”. Both statements, while technically true, rather overlooked the entirety of the truth.

“Your longevity,” said Mazyan, “was a plot of the Knight of Wind and Air.”

“He likes plots,” said Morgant. “There was this one time, he told me to take this broken torque out of a ruined fortress filled with undead. I thought it was stupid, but as it turns out, if I hadn’t taken that torque, Cassander would have killed everyone in Istarinmul.”

Samnirdamnus, djinni of the Court of the Azure Sovereign, did indeed like his plots. He had offered Morgant a choice to kill the world or to let the world live. At the time, Morgant had thought it riddling nonsense. But he knew know that if he hadn’t taken that torque from the Inferno, then Caina would have died in Rumarah…and Cassander would have destroyed Istarinmul. Or Callatas would have killed Cassander, taken the Staff and the Seal, and then unleashed his Apotheosis.

Odd to think that the lives of so many had depended upon such a small thing.

Samnirdamnus might have liked his little plots…but he was good of them.

“Your longevity was bestowed because the Knight thought you might be of use one day,” said Mazyan. “Clearly he was correct. For my master is in danger, and he bade me to summon you and ask you to keep your word to his father.”

“Danger?” said Morgant. “Do elaborate.”

“Callatas has found him,” said Mazyan.

“Has he?” said Morgant. “Then how are you still alive?”

“I did not speak accurately enough,” said Mazyan. From another man that would have been a tacit admission of a lie. From Mazyan…well, the Oath Shadow lacked sufficient imagination to lie. “Callatas knows that my master is in the city, and is moving to capture him. Evidently the Grand Master thinks his plans are sufficiently threatened and has decided to capture my master.”

“I see,” said Morgant. Perhaps that was why Callatas had not yet moved to seize the Staff and the Seal. Maybe the Grand Master wanted to deal with Mazyan’s master first. Or maybe Callatas thought he could claim the Staff and the Seal whenever he wished, which was a disturbing thought.

“Then you will act?” said Mazyan. “You will keep your word?”

“What does your master want me to do?” said Morgant.

Mazyan blinked, and Morgant realized that the bodyguard didn’t actually know. Truly, Mazyan didn’t have much imagination.

Morgant still wouldn’t want to fight the Oath Shadow, though.

“To fulfill your word,” said Mazyan.

“You’ll need to be more specific,” said Morgant.

Mazyan said nothing, his scowl unwavering.

Morgant sighed. “Perhaps I ought to speak with him.”

“He is not far,” said Mazyan. “This way.”

###

“You have no idea where he might have gone?” said Caina.

“I fear not,” said Annarah.

Caina let out an exasperated sigh, trying to keep her irritation under control. “Since he promised to protect you, I would think he would refrain from wandering off at random.”

“He promised,” said Annarah, “to rescue me and help me.” She shrugged. “If he wandered off, I’m sure he has a reason. He never does anything without a reason.”

“Given how much danger we are in and how high the stakes are,” said Caina, glancing towards the disguised Staff and Seal, “he had better have a pretty damned good reason.”

“He talks without any reason,” said Kylon.

“He doesn’t even do that,” said Annarah with a faint smile.

“All that rambling?” said Kylon.

“All those anecdotes and stories,” said Annarah. “He does it to see how people react to them…”

“Mostly with immense irritation, I presume,” said Nasser. The last Prince of Iramis was not particularly fond of Morgant the Razor, though they had survived considerable dangers together.

“But the irritation tells him something,” said Annarah. “Caina spars with him because she is clever enough to do so and enjoys games. Lord Kylon ignores him and keeps going, just as he treats all pain and discomfort. The Prince likewise engages him in a game of words, and Laertes treats him as an eccentric noble whose oddities simply must be tolerated.”

They stared at her in silence for a moment.

Laertes grunted. “She’s got us figured, doesn’t she?”

Nasser laughed. “Let us not underestimate the Razor’s cleverness. Or that of Mistress Annarah. I suppose if Morgant has seen fit to wander off on some errand of his own, there is no stopping him. It is not as if he acknowledges any authority save his own word. If he returns by the time we depart for Catekharon, well and good. If not, we shall simply go without him.”

“He’ll be back,” said Annarah.

“I’ll head up to the roof and keep watch,” said Laertes. “Both for Morgant and for any trouble.”

“If Kalgri comes for us,” said Caina, “we might not have much warning.”

“Aye,” said Laertes, “but if a riot breaks out in the Alqaarin Bazaar, we’ll have much more warning.”

“Very true,” said Nasser. “I shall go with you. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

“I shall accompany you as well, lord Prince,” said Annarah, rising. The bronze of the pyrikon bracelet around her wrist glinted in the dull light from the hearth. Of course, it wasn’t really made of bronze. The blaze of white fire Caina saw within the metal proved that.

“And I’ll…wait here, I suppose,” said Caina. She could think of nothing else to do. The inactivity gnawed at her, and every instinct she possessed screamed for her to take the Staff and Seal and run for Catekharon as fast as her legs could carry her. But that, she knew, was a fool’s course. With Tanzir’s army marching from the south, the Istarish countryside was in turmoil, and the odds of surviving a journey on foot or even on horseback were slim. For that matter, it would be easy for Callatas and Kalgri to hunt them down. Kalgri could slaughter a small army on her own, to say nothing of the havoc Callatas’s sorcery could unleash.

No, their best hope was to take a ship. A ship was at hand, and they just had to wait a few more hours.

But she could not shake the feeling that waiting even a few moments was a colossal mistake.

“Very well,” said Nasser, getting to his feet and collecting the Staff and the Seal. “Our rooms are upon the top floor, if you wish to rest.” He passed Caina a heavy iron key. “Though I expect you will more likely keep watch.”

“Aye,” said Caina, staring at the fake spear in Nasser’s right hand. She saw the blaze of mighty sorcery within the Staff and the Seal, spells potent and complex beyond imagination. If she looked at it for too long, she started to get a headache. The vision of the valikarion was a powerful and complex thing, and Caina suspected she had a long way to go before she truly mastered it. “I’ll keep watch.”

“I’ll watch with her,” said Kylon, and Caina felt a little better.

“Let us hope for a peaceful watch, then,” said Nasser, and departed with Laertes and Annarah, taking the stairs to the Desert Maiden’s roof.

Caina tossed the key to herself, once, nodded, and then stood up. “I suppose we had better go.”

Kylon stood, the aura of water sorcery surrounding him shifting a little as he did so. Caina had never thought she would call anything of sorcery beautiful, but the aura was a strange mixture of silver and blue, almost like the light striking a calm sea at sunrise, and sometimes she was fascinated by it. She could not have said why.

It was Kylon’s aura. That made all the difference.

Their rooms were on the top floor, with a window overlooking the street below and a pair of narrow beds. It looked little different than the room Caina had used a few months ago to flee Cassander when the Umbarian magus had sent his Kindred assassins and the Silent Hunters and the Adamant Guards after her. Caina paced to the window, pushed open the shutters, and looked at the street below as Kylon closed the door behind them.

There was no sign of Morgant.

“Maybe you were right,” said Caina.

“About what?” said Kylon, walking to her side.

“Morgant,” said Caina. “Maybe it was a mistake to trust him so much.”

“He didn’t give you much choice,” said Kylon.

“I suppose not,” said Caina. She had needed Morgant’s help to find Annarah, just as he had needed her help to rescue Annarah from the Inferno. Then he had accompanied them to Pyramid Isle to find the relics, and then fought against the Umbarians once they returned to Istarinmul. Certainly Morgant was abrasive and unpleasant and she often wanted to hit him, but so far he had not betrayed them.

So far.

“At Drynemet,” said Kylon, frowning, “he told me that Nasser and Annarah had a secret between them, something no one else in the world knew, and he hadn’t been able to figure out what it was.”

“That makes sense,” said Caina, though she wondered what it was. “Nasser and Annarah are the last two living Iramisians. And Callatas, I suppose, but he destroyed Iramis. Maybe…”

“They had an affair?” said Kylon.

Caina blinked, incredulous. “What? Annarah? And Nasser? She’s mourning for her husband, and you saw Nasser with the statue of his wife in the Desert of Candles.”

Kylon shook his head. “You’re right. That was a foolish thought. It was the sort of thing Morgant would have said.” He looked appalled. “I hope the man is not wearing off on me,”

Caina gave him an incredulous look, and then burst out laughing.

“No,” she said. “No, you’re nothing like Morgant. You’re as good as he is in a fight, maybe better…”

“High praise,” said Kylon.

“But other than that,” said Caina, “you’re nothing like Morgant.” She felt herself smile. “I wouldn’t want to be with Morgant. Just you.”

Kylon smiled back at her, and Caina felt something squeeze her heart.

It had been a long time since she had felt like this. The Moroaica had killed Corvalis, and his death had ripped Caina apart. In the aftermath Caina had almost destroyed herself. She had not turned to drink (except for her first night in Istarinmul), but she had taken greater and greater risks in her battle against Callatas and his wraithblood, risks that almost certainly would have led to her death. It had taken Claudia to point that out, and Caina had been more careful after that.

Then Kylon of House Kardamnos had walked back into her life, and she had lost her heart to him.

“You know,” said Caina. “That valikon.”

“What about it?” said Kylon.

“The Emissary of the Living Flame gave it to me at Silent Ash Temple,” said Caina. “She said that I was its custodian, that I would know who I should give it to. I just…never thought it would be you. I never thought I would see you again, and then…there you were.”

“You were surprised?” said Kylon. “I was just as surprised.”

They stood in silence for a little while.

“Have you ever thought,” said Caina, “what we might do after?”

“After?” said Kylon.

“After this,” said Caina. “If we’re successful. If we stop Callatas, maybe even kill him. What would we do then?”

Kylon shrugged. “I have not given it any thought. I have been living day to day since…”

Caina nodded. She knew what he meant. He had given no thought to the future since Kalgri had murdered Thalastre and her unborn child.

“Then we met again, and your purpose seemed good to me, so here I am,” said Kylon. “As to what happens if we are victorious…no, I have not given it any thought.”

“I did,” said Caina in a soft voice. “Once. Before…the day of the golden dead, before I was exiled here. I thought I would stop doing this kind of thing. That I would settle down in Malarae with Corvalis, run the House of Kularus and sell coffee. I never thought I would end up here.”

“Neither did I,” said Kylon, “but we haven’t ended yet, either of us.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Caina. “Forgive me. I am rambling.”

“The waiting is the hardest part,” said Kylon.

“Waiting for what?” said Caina.

“The battle,” said Kylon. “Waiting for a battle that you know you cannot avoid.”

“I suppose,” said Caina. “And wondering where the hell Morgant went.” She rubbed her face, blinking. “Still, you’re right. There’s nothing to do but wait.” She laughed a little. “I wish I had brought a book to read. Or I could try to roll some dice in the common room.”

“You’d start that riot we keep worrying about,” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Caina. “We had best keep watch, then. It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the deserted street.

“I do know what I would do, if we were victorious,” said Kylon.

Caina looked up at him. “Oh? What’s that?”

In answer he put his hands upon her shoulders, turned her around, and kissed her.

It caught her off guard, but then her arms coiled around his back, his hands settling upon her hips. When they broke apart Caina staggered a little, out of breath. Her heart had sped up, and she realized that in the chaos of the last few days they had not lain together since that night at the Circus of Marvels and Wonders.

Yes. It was definitely time to rectify that.

“You know,” said Caina, stepping back. She shrugged out of her cloak and leather armor, letting them fall to the floor. “As long as we’re waiting anyway, we…”

Kylon pulled her close and kissed her again. With the leather armor out of the way, his hand went under her shirt, sliding up her back and side…

The door swung open.

Kylon whirled, yanking the valikon from its sheath in a flash of silvery metal. Caina drew the ghostsilver dagger from her belt, focusing on the figure standing in the door, a gaunt man in a black coat with a stark white shirt.

“Ah, good,” said Morgant, stepping into the room. “I arrived before you got started.”

“Morgant,” said Caina. A wave of frustrated lust and blazing anger boiled through her. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Not interrupting, plainly,” said Morgant.

If he had been standing closer, she might have hit him then and there.

“If this is one of your jokes,” said Kylon, “no one is laughing.”

“No,” said Morgant. “No, there’s nothing funny about what I’m going to tell you.”

“What is it?” said Caina.

“We have a mutual friend who is in trouble,” said Morgant, “and he needs your help.”

“Stop indulging your flair for the dramatic,” said Kylon, “and say your mind plainly.”

“I just did,” said Morgant. “Better get dressed. He’s just down the hall, actually. Convenient coincidence, that.”

Chapter 3: The Blood Is The Key

Caina followed Morgant down the hallway. The ghostsilver dagger was still in her hand. Kylon had sheathed the valikon, but she had seen how quickly he could draw the weapon. If Morgant was leading them into a trap, he would regret it quickly.

But was Morgant leading them into a trap?

If he had wanted to kill her, he had passed dozens of opportunities in the last six months. For that matter, if Morgant wanted to kill her, he would do it competently. Certainly he would not act so suspiciously.

So what was he up to?

“Here we are,” said Morgant, stopping at a door.

“You first,” said Kylon.

Morgant grinned. “Sensible. I approve, Kyracian.”

Without hesitation he opened the door and stepped inside. Caina frowned, but followed him. The room beyond was larger than she expected, furnished with a pair of low round tables ringed with cushions in Istarish style, the shutters open to allow the air and sunlight inside.

The poet Sulaman and his bodyguard Mazyan were inside.

Caina had not seen Sulaman since she had departed Istarinmul for Rumarah and then Pyramid Isle. The poet had helped her several times over the last two years, giving her advice and pointing her in the right direction from time to time. He also apparently had some ability to see the future, an arcane power passed in his blood. Sulaman had predicted the certainty of her death if she had gone to Pyramid Isle…and his prediction had, in a roundabout way, come true.

“See?” said Morgant, striding into the room. “I told you.”

Sulaman stood, staring at Caina, his expression astonished. It was hard to determine his age. He was tall and thin, with a close-cropped, graying beard, and he could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. He wore a simple brown robe and turban, and Caina noted the dust on his boots and the hem of his robe.

He had come here in a hurry. As if running for his life.

“How?” said Sulaman, his voice awed. “You cannot be alive, Balarigar. I saw your death…”

“I cannot perceive her,” said Mazyan, stepping past Sulaman, his expression thunderous. “It as if she is not here.”

“Nor can I,” said Sulaman. “My vision does not perceive her.”

Caina looked at Sulaman, at Morgant, and back at Sulaman. Something huge and vast started to stir in the depths of her mind, a slow, dawning realization. Sulaman must have known Morgant, hadn’t he? He had told Caina where to find him. Sulaman had vouched for Nasser to Caina. For that matter, Sulaman had been in the Vale of Fallen Stars when she had gone south to the Inferno, conferring with Tanzir and the emirs who would become the rebels now marching on Istarinmul.

The entire time Caina had been in Istarinmul, Sulaman had been there, quietly in the background, quietly putting clues in her path, quietly working alongside the enemies of Callatas. What had Nasser said? Where was the best place to hide something?

In plain sight…and she started to realize that Sulaman had been hiding in plain sight for a long, long time.

A shout jerked Caina out of her stunned realization.

“This is a trap!” said Mazyan, drawing the scimitar from his belt.

Kylon shoved past Caina, putting her behind him, the valikon in his hand.

“The assassin has betrayed us!” said Mazyan.

“What?” said Morgant. “No, you idiot, I…”

Kylon pointed the valikon at Mazyan. “That man is possessed.”

In answer, Mazyan surged forward, faster than Caina would have thought, the scimitar blurring in his hand.

###

The Surge, the oracle of the Kyracian people, had given Kylon the ability to sense the presence of the nagataaru, warning him that the malevolent spirits would seep through the cracks in the walls between the mortal world and the netherworld. It had let him sense the Huntress…but it not let him save Thalastre, and the Surge had given him no warning of Kalgri’s attack or Cassander’s and Rolukhan’s plot to keep New Kyre out of the war between the Emperor and the Order. Kylon got angry when he thought about that, so angry that he tried not to dwell upon the Surge.

But the Surge’s gift had given Kylon the ability to sense spirits, and right now he sensed a spirit within the short bearded man. Kylon wasn’t sure what kind of spirit. Some kind of elemental? Perhaps an ifrit spirit like the Sifter?

If Morgant had thought to lure them to their deaths, he would regret it sorely.

The short man charged, and Kylon met his attack, drawing on the sorcery of air to augment his speed. The valikon blurred back and forth in his hand, and he deflected three of the bearded man’s swings. His foe stepped back, and Kylon went on the attack. The bearded man was fast, serpent-fast, and the scimitar leapt and danced like a living thing in his hand.

Yet he retreated, and as he stepped back, he held out his empty left hand.

The air rippled, and a sword of dark, smokeless fire appeared in his grasp, even as his eyes blazed with the same fire.

Kylon had seen fire like that before in the eyes of Samnirdamnus, the djinni who had taken an interest in Caina…and who had arranged for Kylon to save her life.

“Stop!” said Caina, stepping between them. “Stop, both of you!”

###

Caina looked back and forth between Kylon and Mazyan. Both men still had their swords raised, but they had stopped attacking. Mazyan still held that strange sword of smokeless fire, his eyes glowing. The blade reminded Caina of the sword of force that Kalgri could call, but it seemed somehow calmer and less malevolent.

It was exactly the same fire that filled the eyes of Samnirdamnus.

“You’re a djinni of the Court of the Azure Sovereign,” said Caina.

“Not quite,” said Morgant. “He’s something called an Oath Shadow. On the day he was born, a djinni was summoned and bound to his flesh, and it will remain within him until the day of his death. He has grown up with the djinni’s power at his command, and so naturally is quite a formidable fighter. Though he is, alas, somewhat unimaginative.”

“This woman is a trap, master,” said Mazyan, “sent by the untrustworthy assassin to kill you.”

“I keep my word,” said Morgant to Sulaman, “and I told your father that I would protect you.”

“Yet I cannot perceive her,” said Mazyan.

“You can’t see her?” snapped Kylon. “She’s standing right there!”

“Wait,” said Caina. “Mazyan, look at me.” The burning eyes shifted to her. “You can see me with your eyes of flesh, correct? But the djinni within you cannot perceive me with its senses.”

“You speak truly,” said Mazyan.

“That is because,” said Caina, “since the last time we met I have become a valikarion, and therefore the djinni within you cannot perceive me.” She looked at Sulaman. “That is why your vision cannot find me, either.”

“A valikarion?” said Sulaman. “Impossible. The valikarion died when Iramis burned, and no one living knows the means by which they acquired their abilities.”

“It was an unpleasant experience,” said Caina. “I can tell you that much.” An idea came to her. “Take my hand.”

Sulaman tilted his head, puzzled.

“You might be able to sense me then,” said Caina. Kylon could sense her emotions, she knew, when he touched her. Perhaps Sulaman’s abilities would work in same fashion.

“No, master,” said Mazyan. “It may be a trap.”

“I’ve trusted you many times,” said Caina, holding out her left hand. “Now trust me, this once.”

Sulaman offered a small smile. “You are wrong. I have trusted you many times, Balarigar. What is one more time?”

He gripped her left hand, his fingers cool and dry and bony, and closed his eyes. For a moment he did not move, and Caina felt the tingle of arcane power around him as he drew upon his vision. Then his dark eyes opened once more, and he stepped back, his expression stunned.

“It is true,” said Sulaman. “She is the Balarigar, Mazyan. Morgant did not betray us.”

Mazyan’s scowl did not fade, but the smokeless fire in his eyes and vanished and his sword of force unraveled into nothingness.

“A valikarion,” said Sulaman. “I never would have thought such a thing possible.” He laughed to himself. “But if ever there was someone who needed the abilities of a valikarion, it is the Balarigar.”

“I would have preferred to do without them,” said Caina. “The process of acquiring them was…not enjoyable.” Memories of silver fire and necromantic poison and a blade ripping into her chest flickered through her mind. “But they have been useful.”

“I am overjoyed that you are truly alive,” said Sulaman. “Before you came to Istarinmul, I hoped to find a way to stop Callatas, but I saw no path to victory. Yet you have done more to upset his plans than anyone else.” He paused. “How did you survive? I was certain that you would die. I saw your death in fire, and I knew you had perished.”

“Kylon saved me,” said Caina, looking back at him. “This is Kylon of House Kardamnos.”

“The Archon of the Assembly?” said Sulaman.

“Former Archon,” said Kylon. “I fear I am no longer welcome in New Kyre.”

Sulaman looked from Kylon to Caina, and a brief smile flickered behind his beard. To Caina’s surprise, she felt a pulse of embarrassment. Likely Sulaman had realized that she and Kylon were together. The man had always been perceptive.

“I grieve for the loss that brought you to Istarinmul, Lord Kylon,” said Sulaman.

Kylon inclined his head a little. He had lowered the valikon, but he had not sheathed the sword. “Thank you.”

“And I rejoice that you saved the Balarigar,” said Sulaman. “For she has done great good for Istarinmul…and for her to have become a valikarion is tremendous news. For in ancient days the valikarion and the loremasters of Iramis kept watch over the nations. Callatas would not have been able to work such harm if the valikarion of old had been there to stop him.”

“Which is why,” said Caina, “he destroyed Iramis first.”

“Yes,” said Sulaman.

“Well,” said Morgant, looking at Mazyan and Kylon, “if we’re not going to kill each other, perhaps we can get down to business? Complimenting each other is well and good, but…”

“I’ve seen you before,” said Kylon.

Sulaman nodded. “We have met before, Lord Kylon. I wondered if you would recall.”

“Before?” said Caina. “You went to one of his recitations?” She could not remember Kylon meeting Sulaman since he had come to Istarinmul, but it was not as if Kylon had spent every waking moment with her.

No. Kylon had been a powerful noble before his exile, a High Seat of House Kardamnos and an Archon of New Kyre. And he had spent years on the various ships of the Kyracian fleet, sailing to the various ports of the civilized world. He would have visited Istarinmul before, and the most likely time he would have visited Istarinmul would have been when Rezir Shahan and Andromache plotted their attack on Marsis. And that in turn meant…

What kind of man had a bodyguard like an Oath Shadow?

That massive realization stirred a little more in her head.

“Oh,” said Caina in a quiet voice.

Gods, what a blind fool she had been.

“Perhaps you realize the truth at last, Balarigar,” said Sulaman.

“Who are you?” said Caina. “Really?”

“Nasser told you once that secrets are a kind of armor, and we have both worn our armor, you and I,” said Sulaman. “But now I must put my life into your hands, Balarigar, and take off my armor. I did not lie when I said my name was Sulaman the poet, for if I could work my will I would be only a poet. But I am other things as well.” He drew himself up. “My full name is Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, and I am the sole surviving son of the Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon of Istarinmul.”

Caina stared at him. Ever since she had come to Istarinmul, she had heard rumors of how the Padishah and his sons had disappeared, how Callatas and Erghulan now presumed to rule in their names. She had spent a good deal of time over the last two years trying to discover what had become of them, but the security around the Padishah’s Golden Palace was too strong, and then finding the Staff and Seal had taken precedence.

“My first day here,” said Caina. “The missing Prince, and I met you my first day in Istarinmul. Gods. Nasser was right. Hiding in plain sight the entire time.”

Sulaman nodded. “As we have said, secrets are a kind armor.”

“Don’t blame yourself too harshly,” said Morgant. “It really was an excellent deception, and…”

She punched him on the jaw as hard as she could.

###

For an instant sheer astonishment froze Kylon.

Morgant didn’t see the punch coming, and Caina was a lot stronger than her size indicated. His head snapped around, and he stumbled against the wall and dropped to one knee, his pale eyes wide with surprise. Caina stalked towards him, her hands curled into fists, and Kylon caught her shoulder. Her emotions pulsed over his senses as his fingers brushed her skin.

She was enraged, almost past the point of self-control.

“You knew,” said Caina, her level voice at odds with the fury pulsing inside her. “You knew this entire time.”

Morgant got to his feet, rubbing his jaw. He didn’t seem perturbed. “Gods, but that hurt. You know, I always wondered what it would take to get you to lose your temper, and…”

“Shut up!” snapped Caina. “I’ve been trying to figure out what Callatas did with the Padishah and his sons for years, and you’ve had the answer all along? Gods! I should…”

“Do not be wroth with him, Balarigar,” said Sulaman. His calm did not waver. “He kept my secret at both my request and my father’s. I wished to take you into my confidence, but…I grew increasingly certain that you would be captured or killed. You took so many chances, and I feared that sooner or later fortune would not be in your favor.”

Caina said nothing, her lips pressed into a tight line.

“Callatas has been looking for me since the war with the Empire,” said Sulaman. “If you were captured with my secret, he would learn the truth. I could not take the risk.”

Caina took a deep breath, her rage cooling. When Kylon had first met her in Marsis, he had thought of her emotional sense resembled an inferno of rage wrapped inside a layer of ice. The fire never really went away, but she forced it back, the ice predominating once more.

“Very well,” said Caina. “I cannot fault your logic.”

“Is that an apology?” said Morgant, wiping some blood from his lip.

“No,” said Caina. “You deserved that.”

Morgant laughed. “Maybe.”

“All right,” said Caina. “If you need my help, then you need to tell me what is going on.”

“This is correct,” said Sulaman. “Morgant?”

“So you already know,” said Morgant, “that I spent a hundred and fifty years trying to recover Annarah’s pyrikon and find a way into the Inferno so I could rescue her. None of my plans ever worked.”

“I just assumed you were incompetent,” said Kylon.

Morgant snorted. “You were at the Inferno, Kyracian. You saw how well it was guarded. I knew I needed help. I didn’t think we would wind up making the place explode, but life sometimes throws little twists our way…”

“You’re rambling again,” said Caina. “Get to the damned point.”

“The Lord Lieutenant of the Inferno was appointed directly by the Padishah,” said Morgant. “So right before the war with the Empire, I had the idea of breaking into the Golden Palace, stealing the Padishah’s signet ring, and forging myself an official document. I figured I could walk up to the Inferno, present the document, and the Immortals would let me inside.”

“Clearly that plan didn’t work. So. What went wrong?” said Caina.

Morgant grinned. “I was a little more successful than I had planned. I wound up meeting the Padishah himself.”

Kylon frowned. “Truly?”

“He was hiding from Callatas,” said Morgant. “He told me that Callatas was coming for him, and he needed help.”

“You didn’t help him escape?” said Caina.

“He could not have escaped,” said Sulaman. “My father’s health was not robust.”

“What the poet is too polite to say,” said Morgant, “is that the Padishah was immensely fat. He probably weighed as much as five or six Balarigars at that point. He couldn’t even walk, and had to be carried in a palanquin by a team of burly slaves.”

“He was fat when I met him,” said Kylon, “but not that fat.”

“I suspect the Padishah preferred to soothe his worries with food,” said Morgant, “and Callatas had given him a great deal to worry about. He told me that Callatas was planning to make him disappear. His other sons were already dead, and he begged me to help Sulaman hide. If I did this, if I saved Sulaman, he would give me a document granting its bearer access to the Inferno.”

“So what went wrong then?” said Caina.

“Callatas moved too quickly,” said Sulaman. “My father disappeared, and I had no choice but to flee. I have remained hidden in the city since, acting as a poet…”

“But trying to find a way to oppose Callatas without getting yourself killed,” said Caina.

Sulaman nodded. “Indeed. Such as providing aid to a clever young Ghost who set her face against Callatas.”

That explained a lot, come to think of it.

“What happened to your father?” said Caina.

“I do not know,” said Sulaman. “He vanished from my vision, and I have not been able to discover what Callatas did with him.”

“He must have been killed,” said Kylon. “If the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir are claiming to rule in the Padishah’s name, having a living Padishah arrive would prove inconvenient.”

“I do not think so, Lord Kylon,” said Sulaman. “I think my father yet lives, for I suspect Callatas needs my father alive to work the Apotheosis.”

Caina blinked. “What? Why?”

“I do not know,” said Sulaman. “The Padishahs of Istarinmul possess many secrets, just as the Emperors of Nighmar must possess secrets of their own. My powers of vision are one such secret. All those of the Tarshahzon blood are blessed and cursed with such vision. Our faithful Oath Shadows are another such secret.” He gestured at Mazyan, who had stood impassive throughout the entire conversation. “Upon birth, every Tarshahzon is granted an Oath Shadow. The Master Alchemists buy a slave child, conjure a djinni, and bind the spirit in the flesh of the child. The child is given the finest training, and spends his life as a bodyguard to his master.”

“That is cruel,” said Caina.

“It is a great honor,” said Mazyan at once. “I guard the royal blood of Istarinmul. None shall harm the prince while I live. Should he be slain, it will be only after I have slain an army of foes.”

“Fine,” said Caina, unwilling to argue the point. “So Callatas has your father hidden away somewhere, and he needs the Padishah to work the Apotheosis. Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because,” said Sulaman, “Callatas is coming for me. Today Kindred assassins attacked my residence, and Mazyan and I barely slipped away.”

“They were coming to kill you?” said Kylon.

“No,” said Caina. “They were coming to capture you, weren’t they?”

“You see truly,” said Sulaman.

“You’re his…backup, then,” said Caina. “Whatever quality Callatas needs from your father to work the Apotheosis, you possess it as well. That’s why he hasn’t made any real effort to capture you before now. He hasn’t needed you, but with the civil war, he wants to get you under his control before you join Tanzir Shahan.”

“That is my thought as well,” said Sulaman.

Caina took a deep breath. “There is another reason Callatas acted now. We found the Staff and Seal of Iramis.”

For the first time Sulaman looked alarmed, fear going through his emotional sense. “You did? Where are they?”

“At the moment,” said Caina, “they’re likely on the roof with Nasser.”

“You must get them out of the city without delay,” said Sulaman. “Callatas must not find them! If he does, he will work the Apotheosis at once, and hundreds of thousands will die when the nagataaru possess the wraithblood addicts.”

“We are going to Catekharon to give the relics to the Sages,” said Caina.

“The Scholae?” said Sulaman. “Yes. They should be safe there. The Scholae would never cooperate with Callatas, and he would be unable to force his way past their wards.”

“We would have departed already,” said Caina, “but we didn’t dare go overland, and we needed a ship and Cassander’s attack scared them all away. We have hired a vessel, but we will not leave until tomorrow morning.”

“Hopefully that will be soon enough,” said Sulaman. “I ask for your help, Balarigar.” He took a deep breath. “Take me to Tanzir’s army.”

“You’ve been in correspondence with him, haven’t you?” said Caina. “All this time.”

“Ever since he returned from Malarae,” said Sulaman. “I had thought him a weak young man, but he has grown into a capable leader. The time for secrecy has passed. I must go to Tanzir’s army and reveal myself. The rebels are marching to restore sound governance to Istarinmul, and their cause will be strengthened if a true son of Nahas Tarshahzon marches with them. Many nobles have held themselves aloof from the fight…”

“But if you let them make you Padishah,” said Caina, “then the rebels aren’t rebels any longer. They are loyalists fighting for the true ruler of Istarinmul.”

“Yes,” said Sulaman. A flicker of weariness went through his emotional sense. “The throne of the Most Divine Padishah is something I never sought. I had several older brothers, but they killed each other off and Callatas slew the rest. I never sought this burden, but if it has come to me, then I must do my duty.”

“I understand,” said Caina. “Very well. We will help you, if we can. Perhaps Kylon and I can take the regalia to Catekharon, but Nasser, Annarah, and Morgant can get you to Tanzir. Or…the Imperial embassy. Erghulan won’t dare attack that. The last thing he needs right now is to provoke a war with the Empire. If Lord Martin sends a delegation to the rebels to determine their intentions towards the Empire, we could send you along with them. Callatas might not think to look for you there.” Caina looked at Kylon. “We had best find Nasser and see what he and Annarah think.”

“Agreed,” said Kylon. “If…”

Mazyan stepped towards the door, frowning.

“What is it?” said Sulaman.

“The enemy comes,” said Mazyan.

###

Callatas strode through the Alqaarin Bazaar, his white robes rippling.

Around him marched three hundred Immortals of his personal guard, stark and forbidding in their black armor, their eyes glimmering with blue light beneath their skull-masked helmets. The Immortals were the finest warriors in the world, produced by the cruelty of the Inferno’s training and the powerful alchemical elixirs that flowed through their veins. They were a necessary tool, but one Callatas disliked using. They were a symptom of civilization, of the necessary corruptions and brutalities of ruling a nation.

Once the Apotheosis was completed, there would be no more need for warriors, or nations, or even civilization itself.

Kalgri glided next to him, clad in her blood-colored armor, a black cloak hanging from her shoulders, the cowl concealing her head. She wore a mask of red steel, the expression serene, and a ghostsilver short sword waited at her belt. Callatas disliked the weapon. Ghostsilver could penetrate even the layers of potent warding spells that surrounded him, and if he could work his will, he would have rid the world of every ghostsilver weapon.

He knew that Caina Amalas had a ghostsilver dagger, stolen from his library in the Maze, and that Kylon of House Kardamnos had a valikon, which was more dangerous than any ghostsilver weapon. Callatas knew better than to face his foes directly. Battles were always chancy. Better to send servants to deal with his foes rather than risk himself.

Yet all those he had sent to rid himself of Caina Amalas had failed. Cassander had failed, and had nearly destroyed Istarinmul in his death throes. Even Kalgri herself had failed to kill Caina, and she had failed only a handful of times over the last century and a half.

Perhaps the time had come for Callatas to deal with his enemies himself.

Still, despite all his power and all his defenses, he knew that he was taking a risk. Strength and valor might decide a battle, yet chance governed all.

Yet to finally claim the Staff and the Seal, it was worth the risk.

“There,” murmured Kalgri, the mask lending her voice a flat, metallic quality. She looked at the bronze compass in her hand and let out a laugh. “Truly? She went back there?”

“Where is she?” said Callatas.

“The Desert Maiden,” said Kalgri. “A tavern near the Alqaarin Bazaar. Cassander almost trapped her there before she fled the city to find the relics.”

“A dog returns to its vomit,” said Callatas with disdain. “A tavern? Likely a sink of filth and lies and debauchery. Another outgrowth of the corruption that is civilization.”

Kalgri said nothing in answer. He knew that she thought him insane, and he did not care. She was a venal, base creature, more concerned with sating her endless lust for pain and cruelty than in any higher purpose. She was a useful tool, but once the Apotheosis was underway, he would have no further need of her.

“You ought to visit such places more often, father,” said Kalgri. “You might have found the relics sooner.”

A wave of irritation went through Callatas, and he suppressed it. He could deal with Kalgri later. Right now he needed her help. He would use any tool at hand to save humanity and work the Apotheosis, even if that tool was as annoying as the creature that called herself the Red Huntress.

“Sulaman is likely with them,” said Kalgri. “He would have fled to Caina after he escaped the Kindred.”

“Yes,” said Callatas. Kalgri had seen Sulaman meet with Caina several times, but she had not bothered to mention that fact to Callatas, just as she had not bothered to mention that Caina had found the regalia until after Cassander was dead.

He let out a long breath, bringing himself under control, the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis filling his thoughts. Yes, there had been many setbacks and many failures…but today, at last, he would claim everything he needed to finish the Apotheosis.

His hand drifted to the Star of Iramis against his chest, the blue crystal seeming to glimmer even in the harsh noon sunlight. Over one hundred and fifty years ago, he had dared to draw upon the Star’s power, using it to destroy Iramis and its troublesome loremasters and valikarion, and he had not dared to draw upon that titanic power since.

Tonight, though…once he had the remaining two pieces of the regalia, he could at last work the Apotheosis.

“Khalmir,” said Callatas, and the khalmir in command of the Immortals stepped to his side. “Surround the Desert Maiden. Let no one escape. Kill everyone you find, save for the prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon. He must be brought to me alive and unharmed. You will kill everyone else you find in the tavern. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Grand Master,” said the khalmir, and he began giving orders to the other Immortals, who raced towards the Desert Maiden, dividing into groups to cover both the exits.

“Watch the roof,” said Kalgri. “One of her favorite tricks is to escape over the rooftops.”

“Perhaps that shall be your task,” said Callatas.

She let out a sneering laugh. “Certainly not. I am not eager to fight a man armed with a valikon. Perhaps you shall have that honor, father.”

“Khalmir!” said Callatas. “Send parties over the roof as well. It may be wise to dispatch some men to the sewers to check for escape tunnels.”

The khalmir turned and shouted new commands.

“So you will not fight yourself?” said Kalgri.

“Perhaps,” said Callatas, flexing his right hand, golden fire snarling to life around his fingers as he summoned arcane power. Perhaps Kylon of House Kardamnos would indeed try to kill Callatas. If that happened, the exiled Kyracian lord would find that the petty tricks of a stormdancer were no match for the power of the Grand Master.

He hoped he killed Kylon. He hoped he killed the man while Caina watched.

It would be a just repayment for all the difficulty the wretched woman had given him.

Chapter 4: Memory Trap

Caina opened the door to the hallway just as the shouting began, as running boots thumped down the hallway.

She almost collided with Laertes, who had his sword in hand and shield on his arm.

“There you are,” said Laertes. “You need to come the roof, now. There are Immortals heading through the Bazaar.” He glanced over Caina’s shoulder, and his eyes widened. “The poet’s here?”

“Aye,” said Caina. “We have more problems than I thought.”

Laertes snorted. “What else is new?”

“Come on,” said Caina to the others. “Sulaman, take everything you might need. We’re leaving.” Kylon, Morgant, Sulaman, and Mazyan followed Caina into the hallway, and she in turn followed Laertes as he hurried to the end of the corridor, clambering up the ladder to the roof.

The last time Caina had been on the Desert Maiden’s roof had been when she fled for her life from Cassander’s Kindred hirelings and Silent Hunters, and the flat expanse of dusty tiles had not changed. The Istarish often retreated to the rooftops in the evening to escape the day’s accumulated heat. Nasser and Annarah stood at the edge of the roof, gazing to the south, and Caina ran to join them.

“We have a problem,” said Nasser.

A gleaming black mass filled the street below. Immortals, hundreds of Immortals, ran towards the Desert Maiden. Callatas had found them, and was coming to take the relics at last. Or it was also possible that Callatas had tracked Sulaman and Mazyan here, and was coming to take the heir of Istarinmul into custody.

“Aye,” said Caina. “We have another problem, too.”

Nasser glanced back at Sulaman. “The poet?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “Out of curiosity, did you know that he’s the Padishah’s youngest son?”

The shock that went over Nasser’s face made Caina feel a little better. Perhaps she was not a complete fool after all. She had come to like and trust Nasser a great deal. Morgant had claimed Nasser and Annarah had a secret between them, but Caina was glad that Sulaman’s true identity had not been that secret.

“I see,” said Nasser. “That explains a great deal, but we can consider the matter later.” He scowled in Morgant’s direction for an instant, and then looked at the Immortals. “We must flee at once.”

“Over the rooftops?” said Caina.

“Yes,” said Nasser. “We…”

“Too late,” said Annarah, holding out her hand. Her bronze pyrikon bracelet unfolded itself from her wrist, extending into a slender staff. The staff began to flicker with white fire as Annarah drew upon her power.

Caina followed her gaze and saw a dozen Immortals racing over the nearby rooftop. She turned in the other direction, away from the Bazaar, just as another troop of Immortals sprinted over the tiles, chain whips and scimitars in hand.

“We can’t escape over the rooftops,” said Laertes.

“We’ll have to fight our way clear,” said Caina. “We can’t go down to the street.” She looked at Nasser. “Attack towards the Bazaar. We’ll fight our way through and run to Murat’s ship. Once he sees a hundred Immortals running after us, I think we can persuade him to depart.”

“Agreed,” said Nasser.

“Or we could just try punching them in the jaw,” said Morgant. He had his crimson scimitar in his right hand and his black dagger in his left, and to Caina’s sight both weapons glowed with arcane power. “That always solves everything.”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” said Caina, putting her ghostsilver dagger in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left.

The others adjusted their weapons. Kylon had the valikon in his right hand, and a faint white mist swirled around his left hand as he drew upon the sorcery of water. Laertes hefted his shield and broadsword, while Mazyan planted himself in front of Sulaman, that sword of smokeless flame erupting from his right hand. Sulaman himself drew a scimitar, his face impassive. Annarah stepped next to Sulaman, both hands gripping her bronze staff. Her spells could not harm the Immortals, but she possessed several protective warding spells…and if Kalgri turned up, the power of an Iramisian loremaster could harm the Voice, the nagataaru that gave the Huntress her deadly speed and strength.

“You punched him?” said Nasser. “I’ve wanted to do that for quite some time.”

“She didn’t hit me that hard,” said Morgant. “But it was a hurtful, hurtful thing to do…”

“Shut up and fight,” said Caina.

Morgant grinned at her and turned to face the advancing Immortals.

In a strange way, a peculiar sort of relief settled over Caina. She had spent years hiding in the shadows, plotting for the future and laying down plans to cover every possible contingency. A fight was simpler. Either she and Kylon and the others would escape, or they would be killed.

Caina gripped her weapons and braced herself.

###

Kylon strode to the edge of the roof, his right hand holding the valikon, his left trailing white mist. The Immortals sprinted forward, leaping over the narrow alley separating the Desert Maiden from the next house. The Immortals were fast and strong, granted inhuman physical prowess by the mind-twisting elixirs they ingested.

The sorcery of air made Kylon even faster.

The Immortals jumped, a dozen of them at once, and Kylon moved. He gripped the valikon’s hilt with both hands, swinging the weapon with all the strength of the sorcery of water behind it. The blade hammered into an Immortal’s black cuirass. The dark armor was more that strong enough to turn aside the valikon’s edge. Nevertheless, Kylon hit the Immortal hard enough to reverse his momentum, and the black-armored warrior shot backward, hit the wall, and tumbled into the alley below. The Immortals were tough, but not tough enough to survive a thirty-five foot fall.

The Immortals landed at the edge of the roof, and Kylon spun before they recovered their balance, his boot lashing out. He struck another Immortal in the stomach, and the warrior overbalanced and fell, tumbling into the alley.

Before meeting Caina, Kylon had not spent very much time fighting on rooftops, but he had come to realize that for someone with the capabilities of a stormdancer, a rooftop made an ideal battlefield.

The Immortals surged to attack him, and Kylon retreated, filling himself with the sorcery of air to make himself faster. He fell back, the valikon snapping back and forth to deflect thrusts and swings while he sidestepped and dodged. As he did, he drew upon the sorcery of water and frost, concentrating it in his left hand. The Immortals closed around him, and Kylon went on the attack. His foes responded, shifting their scimitars in preparation to block any strikes from his sword.

So the nearest Immortal was surprised when Kylon punched him in the face. The surprise did not last long, because Kylon’s fist crushed his faceplate and shattered his forehead. The Immortal went down, and Kylon ripped his left fist free, the granite-hard glacial ice sheathing his hand and wrist glittering in the Istarish sun.

Caina had given him the idea. He had seen again and again how she found ways to outmaneuver her enemies, turning their strengths into weaknesses. Her brain was a weapon as much as any dagger, and he had wondered what use that brain might make of a stormdancer’s powers. Then he had watched Nasser use his crystal fist to punch through an Adamant Guard’s armored cuirass, and Kylon had wondered if he could do the same thing.

It turned out that he could.

He struck another Immortal in the head before the enemy realized his new tactic and adjusted. Kylon dismissed the spell holding the ice, and his frozen gauntlet shattered, the glittering shards melting as they feel to the tiles of the roof. He took the valikon’s hilt in both hands and charged.

Even for a stormdancer, ten Immortals might prove challenging, but by then he had help.

Nasser attacked on Kylon’s right, his gloved fist lashing out to catch an Immortal in the side of the head. The fist of living crystal crushed the Immortal’s helmet, and Nasser’s scimitar snapped around with lazy, almost contemptuous grace, deflecting the thrusts of the nearby Immortals. Kylon sparred with Nasser on a regular basis, and the last Prince of Iramis was one of the best swordsmen Kylon had ever faced. Morgant refused to spar with Kylon, or anyone, but the old assassin was no less effective. A slash of his enspelled black dagger ripped through an Immortal’s cuirass like a blade slicing through a sausage casing. The Immortal fell, the torn edges of his cuirass glowing white-hot from the power of Morgant’s blade, and Morgant wheeled, his black coat flying around him, and struck down two more Immortals in rapid succession. Caina had said that the spell on Morgant’s dagger somehow bypassed friction, allowing it to cut through nearly anything. Of course, the stolen heat from the bypassed friction stored up in the gem in the dagger’s pommel, but Morgant had a use for that as well.

He flicked his wrist, punching the dagger through an Immortal’s armored forearm, and released the stored heat. The Immortal erupted into crackling flames, cooking inside his own armor, and stumbled backwards and fell off the roof.

Kylon, Nasser, and Morgant stood side-by-side, cutting down every Immortal that approached them.

Yet they made no headway. There were too many Immortals, and Kylon found himself forced back step by step.

###

“We’ll have to hold this side of the roof until Kylon and the others can cut a path for us to escape,” said Caina. “Will Mazyan fight?”

“We shall both fight,” said Sulaman in a quiet voice, lifting his scimitar. Caina gave him a dubious look. Sulaman was good at reciting the long, complex epic poems of the Istarish nation, but she had never seen him fight.

Well, given the number of Immortals swarming towards them, there would be no shortage of fighting.

“Legionary,” grunted Mazyan, lifting his sword of silent flame, his eyes beginning to burn with the same fire. “Shield my back. I cannot fight them all at once.”

“Aye,” said Laertes. “Mistress Annarah, kindly stay back. Ciaran. What will you do?”

Despite the grim situation Caina stifled a smile. In the heat of the moment Laertes had called her “Ciaran”, the alias she had used with Nasser and his allies until they finally realized she was a woman. Sometimes she suspected that Nasser and Laertes still thought of her as a man.

Well, man or woman, the Immortals would kill them all if they could.

“What I do best,” said Caina. “Make trouble.”

Laertes barked the harsh, dry laugh of a veteran centurion. “Victory is assured, then.” He slapped the flat of his broadsword against the front of his massive shield and began shouting. “Come on, then! Come, you dogs! Are you dogs or are you men?”

The Immortals came.

They leaped over the rooftops and charged, raising their scimitars and chain whips. Caina gripped her weapons, feeling useless. She could not drive a ghostsilver dagger through steel plate, and fighting fairly meant that something had gone wrong. She had killed Immortals before, but it had always been a close thing.

Then, before her thoughts could finish forming, Mazyan moved.

Samnirdamnus called himself the Knight of Wind and Air, and the djinn of the Court of the Azure Sovereign were air elementals. As Caina watched Mazyan flicker forward, she realized that had been no idle boast.

Mazyan did indeed move like the wind.

The burning sword disappeared as he charged, his power going to fuel his speed, but it reappeared when he attacked. The blade of smokeless flame cut through the Immortals’ armor and flesh and bone without resistance, just as Kalgri’s sword of dark force had done at the Court of the Fountain in the Golden Palace. In the blink of an eye Mazyan killed four Immortals. The rest spread out around him, hoping to encircle him. For all his speed, Mazyan’s power was still housed in a body of mortal flesh, and that body had limitations.

Laertes dashed forward, slamming one Immortal across the side with his shield. The black-armored warrior staggered, and Laertes brought his broadsword around in a vicious chop, the heavy blade crunching into the Immortal’s neck. The Immortal staggered, and Laertes ripped his sword free, raising his heavy shield to block the lash of another Immortal’s chain whip. The length of chain rebounded from his shield, leaving gouges in the wood, and the Immortal raised his scimitar for another strike.

As he did, it gave Caina an opening. She circled to the left as Laertes charged, and as the Immortal raised his sword, she darted forward, driving her ghostsilver dagger into the gap in the armor beneath his armpit. The blade sank deep into his chest, and the Immortal staggered, his blow going wide. Caina ripped her dagger free, the ghostsilver’s gleam concealed beneath a layer of blood, and the next hit from Laertes’s shield knocked the dying Immortal to his knees. Mazyan went on the attack, blurring back and forth, slowing only when he called forth his blade of smokeless flame. Laertes covered him, and together they pushed the Immortals back.

Yet three of the Immortals charged towards Annarah and Sulaman, weapons raised.

Caina cursed and sprinted for them. Annarah struck the end of her pyrikon staff against the ground, and a flickering corona of white light surrounded her and Sulaman. It was a ward against weapons, but Annarah could only hold it for so long, and the Immortals would batter down her defenses swiftly.

Sulaman stepped forward, and as he did, Caina saw a flicker of power around him. He was drawing upon his power of foretelling, though she could not imagine what use it would be in a battle. One of the Immortals stepped forward, raising his chain whip. Caina cursed and ran faster, and the aura of arcane power around Sulaman intensified.

The Immortal swung his chain whip at Sulaman, and Sulaman sidestepped.

He didn’t move with inhuman speed like Kylon or Mazyan, nor did he move with the precision of a master swordsman like Nasser or the serpentine fluidity of someone like Morgant. Sulaman simply sidestepped, and the chain whip missed him by a yard. Again the Immortal lashed at him, and Sulaman ducked with ease, the whip whistling over his head. The motion made the Immortal stumble off balance, and Sulaman stabbed forward, driving the tip of his scimitar into the Immortal’s neck. The Immortal staggered, and Sulaman stepped back and retracted his blade. A second Immortal came behind him, swinging his chain whip around.

Caina shouted a warning, but it was too late.

There was no way, no way at all, that Sulaman should have seen that strike coming. It should have hit him unawares, leaving him unconscious with a few broken ribs. Yet with perfect timing Sulaman ducked, and the whip missed him by a hair. The arcane aura around Sulaman brightened further, and he turned, opening a wound on the Immortal’s forearm. The third Immortal swung his chain whip, but Sulaman danced aside, the links missing him. His dodges were so perfect, so unhurried, it was as if he could see the future and know exactly where the blows would fall…

Then in a flash, Caina realized that he could see the future. He was focusing his vision into sort of a short-term precognition, letting him glimpse the next few seconds with crystalline clarity. Caina could think of a few situations where that might have proven useful.

The Immortals had their full attention upon Sulaman, which made it easy for Caina to spring upon the back of the nearest one, her arm coiling around his armored chest. The Immortal started to stiffen, reaching to throw her off, but she drove her ghostsilver dagger beneath his helmet and into his neck. She felt hot blood spatter across her fingers, and she ripped her dagger free as the Immortal successfully managed to throw her off. Caina hit the roof, tucked her shoulder, and rolled, springing back to her feet in preparation for the attack. But the Immortal slumped to his knees, one had grasped to his neck, and fell over. Caina turned to aid Sulaman, but he had already dispatched the third Immortal.

She spun to see Mazyan and Laertes holding their own, and then saw Kylon, Nasser, and Morgant driving back the Immortals. Even as she looked, Kylon punched at one of the Immortals, his fist landing with enough force to crush the top of a helmet. How had he done that?

They were holding back the Immortals, yet she already saw more squads of the black-armored warriors running across the rooftops, and another group storming into the common room of the Desert Maiden. They would butcher their way across the common room, storm up the stairs, and swarm onto the roof.

And then Caina and the others would be overwhelmed.

They had to get away now. There were already too many Immortals in the alleys to retreat that way. Could they climb down the sides of the Desert Maiden? Or maybe they could go over the streets themselves? It was a long gap, but maybe with some rope…

As Caina looked towards the street, a flash of crimson on the opposite house’s roof caught her eye. A figure in a dark cloak ran across the rooftop, the black cloak rippling back to reveal a female form sheathed in crimson chain mail and dark leather…

A bolt of pure terror shot through Caina, her skin crawling with revulsion. She had a searing memory of that room in Rumarah, the ghostsilver blade erupting from her chest, the mocking, malicious laughter that had filled her ears as she struggled in vain.

The Red Huntress had come.

The serene crimson mask turned in Caina’s direction, and she felt the force of Kalgri’s attention almost as a physical blow. Caina drew breath to shout a warning, to urge the others to prepare for the Huntress’s assault, and Kalgri leaped into the air, the black cloak billowing around her like dark wings.

But instead of landing upon the roof of the Desert Maiden, she plummeted into the street, landing behind the advancing Immortals. Caina glimpsed a blaze of arcane power, mighty warding spells wrapped around each other like overlapping layers of steel plate. With her eyes of flesh she saw a gold-trimmed white robe, brilliant and dazzling in the noon sun.

The robe worn by a Master Alchemist of the College.

Grand Master Callatas himself had come for them at last.

###

Callatas watched with disdain as Kalgri performed one of her excessively dramatic leaps and landed before him, the black cloak billowing around her. The woman had always possessed an overly developed sense of the dramatic, even when she had been a mere slave and not yet the vessel of the Voice.

“Well?” said Callatas.

“They are there, all of them,” said Kalgri. “The Balarigar…”

“Do not call her that,” said Callatas. “A Szaldic myth.”

Kalgri kept speaking. “The stormdancer. Nasser and his lackey. The old assassin, and the prince and his pet Oath Shadow.”

“Excellent,” said Callatas, lifting his left hand from the handle of his cane, golden fire snarling around his fingers.

“And the loremaster,” said Kalgri. “Annarah herself.”

Callatas scowled. He could imagine Kalgri smiling behind that wretched mask.

“Was she not once one of your students?” said Kalgri.

“A long time ago,” said Callatas.

A long time indeed. Annarah had been one of his most gifted students, with a great talent for the Words of Lore. It was said that the wives of valikarion always made the best loremasters, and Annarah had proven the truth of that old proverb.

Then Callatas had gone for a walk through the streets of Iramis, and seen the dying girl, and…

He realized that Kalgri had taken a prudent step back, her posture tense, and the nearby Immortals had edged away from him as well. Perhaps some of the anger had shown on his face.

Callatas the Wise, the Iramisians had called him, but he had not known true wisdom then, only the sentimental proverbs of foolish children. He had learned better, first in the hellish darkness below Pyramid Isle, and then in his own researches, when he had at last summoned Kotuluk Iblis, the sovereign of the nagataaru, and made the bargain that would save mankind.

All that remained was to take the Staff and the Seal…and Annarah had hidden them from him for a century and a half.

“The troublesome child earned her fate,” said Callatas, tracing signs in the air. Once he would have found the effort of carrying on a conversation, holding a half-dozen wards in place, listening to Kotuluk Iblis’s shadow, and casting a new spell all at once to be an overwhelming challenge. Now it was nothing more than a minor annoyance. “She delayed the Apotheosis for a century and a half with her little stratagem. She made me waste decades looking for the relics in the Desert of Candles.”

“Perhaps if you wanted the relics,” said Kalgri, “then you shouldn’t have burned Iramis. You ought to have known that Nasser would hide them.”

Again a wave of irritation went through him. Well, he would soon have no further need of the Red Huntress, once the Apotheosis was completed and the new humanity spread out to populate the emptied world.

“No matter,” said Callatas, drawing back his hand. “They are mine now.”

“That spell,” said Kalgri. “It will…”

“I know what it will do,” said Callatas. “Since when do you care about the lives of Immortals? They are tools, to be used for whatever purpose I please. Today, their purpose is to hold my enemies pinned in place while I strike.”

He gestured, and a shaft of golden fire ripped from his hand and slammed into the side of the miserable little tavern, soaking into the cheap brickwork.

The transmutation began at once.

###

Arcane power spiked in the air, surrounding Callatas in a furious golden glow. To Caina’s valikarion sight, he blazed like a second sun.

He had summoned a tremendous amount of sorcerous force, power enough to blast the Desert Maiden to smoking rubble. Annarah cast a spell of her own, a ward to turn aside Callatas’s wrath, but even the Words of Lore would not be enough to block that potent spell.

Caina turned, shouting a warning to the others, and golden fire lanced from Callatas and ripped into the side of the Desert Maiden. She expected the spell to strike the building with explosive force, but instead the power spread over the bricks, sinking into the structure.

For an instant nothing happened.

And then the entire building transmuted into sand.

Caina had a brief instant to recognize the spell. The Kindred assassin Anburj had set a trap to capture her, and while escaping from the trap, she fled through the House of Sozanat, a coffee house favored by minor Alchemists. One of the Alchemists had transmuted a staircase into sand, almost sending Caina falling to her death.

Callatas had just transmuted the Desert Maiden into sand.

The roof disintegrated beneath Caina’s boots, and she plunged into the sand. It fell around her, smothering her, burying her, and hot darkness swallowed her as she struggled to breathe.

###

Callatas watched the miserable little tavern collapse into a rippling sand dune.

The resultant sand dune was much lower than the original building. Much of what had once been the Desert Maiden had plunged into the cellar. Anyone caught on the ground floor and the second floor would have been buried alive without escape, including all the surviving patrons and Immortals. The sand overfilled the cellar, spilling into the streets like a minor flood. A few Immortals staggered from the wreckage, sand pouring from the joints of their armor, but Callatas saw no sign of his enemies.

Likely they had all been buried.

No matter. Mere sand could not conceal artifacts as powerful as the Staff of Iramis and the Seal of Iramis.

Kalgri was laughing, her voice filled with pleasure. The shadow of Kotuluk Iblis had sensed a score of deaths in the last instant, along with a few more every second as men asphyxiated within the sand. The Voice within the Huntress was feeding upon the deaths, gorging itself on the pain and stolen life force, and Kalgri feasted along with the nagataaru.

The woman was contemptibly venal.

Callatas strode towards the remnants of the Desert Maiden, the sand rasping against his boots.

“So bold,” said Kalgri as he began a spell. “What if Lord Kylon bursts from the sand and stabs his valikon through your heart?”

“Lord Kylon, if he is still alive,” said Callatas, “is choking beneath a dozen tons of sand. Even if he still lives, it will take him time to dig himself free, and while he is doing that, you can cut off his head. Taunt him about his dead wife. You enjoy that sort of thing.”

He finished his spell, his will sweeping the pile of sand for the presence of arcane forces. He felt several potent sorcerous auras beneath the sand. The presence of two pyrikons, for one – the familiar presence of Annarah’s pyrikon, which he had repurposed as a key to the Maze until Caina had stolen it. The aura that surrounded Nasser’s left hand, similar to the thousands of crystalline shadows left by the destruction of Iramis and the banishment of the djinn of the Azure Court. Several other auras that belonged to enspelled weapons likely carried by Caina and her allies. And…

Yes.

There it was.

He remembered the first time he had felt that aura over two centuries ago, watching Nasser’s father march from the Gate of the Sun to the Towers of Lore, carrying the ancient regalia of the Princes, the white towers of Iramis gleaming gold and silver in the brilliant sun, the crowds cheering their Prince as he walked to the palace…

Callatas scowled.

Lies. It had all been lies.

He summoned more power, working a simple spell of psychokinetic force. His will sank deep into the dune that had been the Desert Maiden. The sand shifted, and his will coiled around the ancient aura of the regalia. Callatas made a tugging gesture, pulling the aura towards him, and a leather-wrapped spear erupted from the sand and landed in his outstretched hand.

A spear?

A man in the rough clothes of a teamster pulled himself from the sand, trying to kick his way free.

“Help me,” he croaked, sand falling from his beard and mouth. “Please, by the Living Flame, help me…”

“Kalgri,” snapped Callatas, not taking his eyes from the spear.

The Huntress smiled and called the sword of the nagataaru to her hand, a crackling shaft of purple flame and writhing shadow. The trapped teamster just had time to scream before Kalgri took off his head, shivering a little in delight as his blood soaked into the sand.

“Ah,” said Callatas. “A disguise.”

He cast another spell, and the spear’s head crumbled into dust, the leather wrapping falling away into sand.

The Staff and Seal of Iramis gleamed in his hand at long last. The Staff was wrought from the silvery alloy of ghostsilver that the loremasters of Iramis had used for their greatest works, and Callatas felt the tremendous arcane power surging through it. Iramisian glyphs marked the length of the staff, and he recalled the long-forgotten words to the forefront of his mind, words of summoning and opening. He reached up to the last bit of the rusted socket atop the staff and flicked it aside, drawing out the Seal of Iramis, a ring made from the same ghostsilver alloy. It had been set with a large blue stone the exact shade of the Star of Iramis, cut in the shape of a seven-pointed star, the ancient sigil of the Princes of Iramis.

For millennia the Princes had carried these relics, since the dawn of ages when men had first built houses and cultivated fields, and across that vast span of time, all those epochs of history, the Princes had restrained themselves from using the power of the Staff, Seal, and Star of Iramis.

Callatas would use them to remake humanity into a new and better form. He had found the one thing that was perfectible about mankind, and he would perfect it.

He looked at the sand dune, his fingers tight against the Staff, the Seal resting in the palm of his other hand. None of his enemies had yet emerged from the sand, which meant they were either trapped and digging their way out or already dead. He expected at least a few to survive. Kylon and Sulaman’s dogged Oath Shadow, most probably, and likely Nasser as well. The man had proven vexingly difficult to kill. Well, he was finished now. Callatas would take a few Immortals with him and return to his palace at once to begin the final spells of the Apotheosis.

He would leave Kalgri and the rest of the Immortals here to deal with Caina and Sulaman and their allies. They would be vulnerable as they dug their free, and the Immortals would kill them with ease. He had no fear that Kalgri would disobey, either. The woman had a bad habit for interpreting his instructions in the most creative way possible, but she adored killing, and she would make sure Caina was dead. The Red Huntress did love her little grudges. She woudl kill Sulaman and the others, as well – for once Kalgri’s love of indiscriminate slaughter would prove useful.

Callatas turned to give his commands to Kalgri and the Immortal khalmir, slipping the Seal of Iramis upon his finger.

And as he did, a voice thundered inside of his head.

It was a deep, melodious voice, calm and certain. Callatas had listened to that voice for years, and its teachings had changed the course of his life. Callatas had thought he had escaped that voice, and had not given it any thought for decades.

In a surge of horror, he realized that the voice had left part of itself inside his head…and the jaws of the trap closed around him.

“Come to me,” said the voice of Kharnaces, the Heretic of Maat.

Callatas tried to struggle, tried to fight, but sorcery older and stronger than his power closed around his mind like a fist of iron...and suddenly all his emotions drained away, replaced by placid, obedient calm.

###

Kalgri watched the sand dune, waiting for her enemies to die.

One way or another, they were going to die. Either the sand would crush the breath from them, or they would crawl free, and then Kalgri would kill them. She sensed that Kylon of House Kardamnos was still alive, and expected him to burst free from the sand before long. Kalgri would dispatch him before could bring that damned valikon to bear. She would have liked to have killed him while Caina watched, but as immensely pleasurable as that would have been, Kalgri was not about to risk her safety. Instead, she would present Kylon’s head to Caina. Yes, she liked that thought, and the Voice hissed its approval, the nagataaru stirring in the depths of her mind like a coiling serpent. She would present Kylon’s head to Caina, and watch the Balarigar’s expression crumple like a…

The Voice’s whispers of exultation turned to a hiss of alarm.

Kalgri took a step back, lifting her ghostsilver short sword in guard. The Immortals still stood guard, watching the sand dune that had swallowed half their number. The Voice sensed the horror and pain of those buried alive, pain that rapidly ended as they ran out of air and died. She turned, wondering if Callatas had seen anything, and then stopped in astonishment.

Callatas was twitching, his eyes closed. Kalgri and the Voice could sense nothing from the Grand Master, not with the layers of wards mantling him, but she knew that the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis filled him. Callatas had dared to summon the sovereign of the nagataaru and make a pact with him. Perhaps the price for that pact had finally come due.

Or maybe the Grand Master was having a stroke.

It would be amusing if after one hundred and fifty years of searching, the old wretch finally died just as he stretched out his hand to claim victory.

As she watched, he shuddered once more, and then his eyes opened.

“Father?” said Kalgri.

He gave no reaction to the title, which surprised her. She only called him that because it irritated him so much. Kalgri had only vague memories of her real father, but since the man had sold her into slavery a long time ago, he could rot in his grave.

Callatas looked at her. His expression seemed…off, somehow. It was usually a cold mask, colored with contempt and arrogance. Now he seemed calm, relaxed, even placid. She wondered if he had accidentally ingested some of his own wraithblood.

“I have instructions for you,” said Callatas, his voice a peculiar monotone. “Khalmir. Attend.” The Immortal khalmir stepped to the Grand Master’s side. “Gather the survivors. We shall immediately depart for the Towers of the Sea. There we shall take command of a galley and sail at once. See to the necessary preparations.”

“Of course, Grand Master,” said the khalmir. “If I may ask, where are we going?”

“Pyramid Isle,” said Callatas. The khalmir began shouting commands, the Immortals falling in around Kalgri and the Grand Master.

“Pyramid Isle?” said Kalgri. “Why are you going there?”

She did not know what Callatas had done on Pyramid Isle. He never spoke of it, and she had only been able to discover bits and pieces of the truth. She knew that a Great Necromancer of Maat was imprisoned upon the island, and from him Callatas had learned the secrets of summoning the nagataaru. Apparently Callatas had undergone a falling out with his former master, because he had fled Pyramid Isle and had never returned.

“It is necessary,” said Callatas. “I must go to Pyramid Isle without delay.” He beckoned to the khalmir. “Are the Immortals ready? Good. We shall leave for the Towers of the Sea at once. Commandeer whatever supplies you require for a sea voyage of seven to ten days.”

Callatas strode away from the wreckage of the Desert Maiden without another word, and for an instant Kalgri was so astonished that she could think of nothing to say.

“But what about Sulaman?” she said. “What about the Balarigar?” Callatas had been utterly adamant about the need to capture Sulaman and kill Caina a few moments earlier. What could have possibly changed his mind?

Were the relics controlling him somehow?

Callatas glanced at her. “If you wish, stay behind and kill them. Or accompany me and do as I command. Or depart from this place and do as you wish. Your decisions are of no further consequence.” That strange monotone never wavered, his face still placid and lacking its usual cold arrogance. “Decide now.”

Without another word, he strode away, the Immortals flanking him.

Kalgri watched him go in utter confusion. She had known Callatas for a very long time, ever since she had been purchased as one of his household slaves, and he had never acted like this. Certainly he had never passed up the chance to kill an enemy. He had offered a bounty of two million bezants to anyone who killed Caina Amalas. Even if his victory was now assured beyond all possibility of defeat, the old man was still spiteful enough to kill Caina in repayment for all the annoyance she had caused him.

Yet he was now just walking away, the Seal flashing upon his finger, the Staff tapping against the street with his stride.

For the first time in years, Kalgri didn’t know what to do next.

Not that she cared what happened to Callatas. She hated him, yet the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis filled him, and that forced the Voice to yield to him. That, and she knew that if she ever lifted a finger against Callatas, he would blast her to ashes or transmute her into one of his crystalline statues. Kalgri knew she could kill almost anyone, but not Callatas.

Not that working for him had been unpleasant. He needed a lot of people killed, and he didn’t particularly care what she did so long as it did not inconvenience him. Furthermore, sooner or later he would complete the Apotheosis, and that would kill a lot of people, and she could feast upon the deaths of thousands.

Yet now the Voice was certain, utterly certain, that if Callatas went to Pyramid Isle, the Apotheosis would never come to pass, and that thought enraged the nagataaru.

“What about your enemies?” called Kalgri.

Callatas paused. “Yes. They may hinder my task.” He turned. “Khalmir, dispatch a runner to Grand Wazir Erghulan. Tell him that he and Master Alchemist Rhataban are to proceed as we discussed. Additionally, send men to the Imperial Embassy with instructions to kill Lord Martin, his family, and all their servants and guards. The resultant chaos should prevent anyone from interfering with my task.”

The khalmir dispatched one of his Immortals as a messenger, and Callatas resumed his walk towards the Towers of the Sea, the twin fortresses on the northernmost edge of the city.

Kalgri’s instincts told her to follow Callatas, to see what was happening. The Voice agreed with her instincts, demanding that she follow Callatas, and the nagataaru’s furious whispers claimed that if Callatas took the Staff, the Seal, and the Star to Pyramid Isle, then the Apotheosis would never come to pass. The thought of missing the chance to feast upon that much death and agony filled Kalgri with something like physical pain. Yes, she would follow Callatas, but first she would make sure that Caina and Kylon and their allies were dead…

Or perhaps it was time to retreat.

The Immortals had vanished from sight, Callatas with them. If Kylon emerged from the sand, Kalgri might have to fight him alone, and she did not want to do that for any reason. The man was a dangerous fighter, and he had bested her in their first duel atop the Tower of Kardamnos in New Kyre. With a valikon in hand he could destroy both her and the Voice, and the nagataaru quailed at the thought of facing that damned sword once again. Kalgri well remembered the horrible pain of the sword’s cuts. No, when she killed Kylon, she would stab him in the back, not face the fury of his valikon. For that matter, Annarah was a loremaster of Iramis, and the Words of Lore had the potential to do great harm to Kalgri, perhaps even to kill her and destroy the Voice.

The last time Kalgri had fought Caina by herself, she had been ripped in half and thrown from the top of a mountain, and that had been before Caina had gained the help of Kylon and Annarah. Pain no longer meant as much to Kalgri as it once had, but she still had no wish to repeat the experience.

She decided to follow Callatas. The Grand Master’s behavior puzzled her, and she wished to learn its cause. And if the relics had indeed overthrown his reason…perhaps she could find a way to restore his mind.

For if she did, he would work the Apotheosis, and uncounted thousands would die.

Kalgri sprinted after Callatas and the Immortals, leaving the wreckage of the Desert Maiden behind.

Chapter 5: The Pact

Caina struggled to breathe.

She had landed with her boots pointing towards the ground. Or, at least, she thought so. The sand choked off all the light, and it was possible that she was upside down without realizing it. She clawed upwards, forcing her arms through the shifting sand, kicking with her legs as the sand flowed around her. Fortunately, the sand was dry and loose enough that there was still a pocket of air in front of her face.

It wasn’t much air, and it would not last much longer.

Caina could not be buried more than a few feet deep. If Callatas’s spell had transformed the entire Desert Maiden into sand, most ofthe sand would be underneath her. She had been standing on the roof. The men who had been caught on the first floor and in the common room had likely been entombed alive in the cellar. There was no hope for them.

There might not be any hope for Caina.

Her breath came sharper and faster as her lungs struggled. Caina thrashed, pulling herself higher through the loose sand, the weight of it pressing against her body. Was she going up or down? They had to get the Staff and the Seal away before Callatas and Kalgri claimed them. Perhaps they could even finish the battle today, if Kylon could bring the valikon to bear against the Grand Master and the Red Huntress.

Perhaps Kylon was already dead, choked by the sand.

Perhaps the Huntress had cut off his head while he had tried to dig his way free. It was exactly the sort of brutal sadism that Kalgri would enjoy, waiting to greet Caina while holding Kylon’s head, just as she had planned to do in Rumarah…

The dread of that thought drove Caina on. White spots flashed before her eyes, her heartbeat a steady thunderclap in her ears. Her hand broke through the top of the sand, clawing at nothingness.

She was loose!

Yet her strength was gone, and there was no air left in her lungs. Caina’s fingers grasped at the sand, trying to find purchase, but the white spots before her eyes grew wider, and her concentration seemed to unravel…

Then a pair of hard, sword-callused hands gripped her wrist and yanked with enough force that her arm almost popped out of the socket. An instant later she burst from the sand, the sunlight brilliant in her eyes, and Laertes dragged her the rest of the way free. Caina fell to her knees, wheezing, sand running in rivulets down her arms and chest, and sucked in breath after breath of fresh air.

“I’ve got her!” said Laertes. His sword was back in its scabbard, his shield slung over his back. That didn’t make any sense. The Immortals were here, the Immortals would be attacking…

The Immortals were gone.

Caina looked around. She saw no Immortals in the street, save for the ones that had been slain. She realized that the heavy weight of their black armor would have hindered them from digging their way free. For that matter, the sand would have poured in through the eyeholes of their helmets, filling the interior space and smothering them quickly.

It was a horrible way to die, as her own burning lungs attested. Though given that Callatas had murdered a quarter of a million people within Iramis to claim the Staff and Seal, it should not surprise her that he was willing to kill a few dozen of his own soldiers to seize the relics.

Boots crunched against the sand, and then Kylon knelt next to her, helping her to stand, and relief flooded through her.

“Gods,” said Kylon. “We thought you had been buried deeper, that maybe one of the Immortals had fallen atop you and pinned you. I thought…” He let out a long breath. “I couldn’t sense you. I could find the others, but not you.”

Caina looked around, wiping the loose sand from her eyes. Nasser stood next to Laertes, his expression grim, and Morgant waited behind Annarah like a black-coated shadow, the pyrikon staff still flickering with white fire in Annarah’s fist. Sulaman struggled towards them, sand cascading off the folds of his robe. Only Mazyan seemed unperturbed, though he looked as truculent as ever.

“What happened?” said Caina. “Why are we still alive?” A darker thought occurred to her. “Where are the Staff and the Seal?”

“Gone,” said Nasser, his voice as hard as she had ever heard it.

“I saw Callatas cast his transmutation spell,” said Annarah, “and I used a Word of Lore to cast a protection around myself. It reached far enough to shield Mazyan and Sulaman. We found ourselves in a clear sphere beneath the sand. By the time we dug our way out, the Immortals were retreating with Callatas and the Huntress. Lord Kylon worked his way free, and with his senses we located the rest of you.”

“Where is the Staff?” said Caina, dread gnawing at her.

“Callatas has it,” said Nasser.

“He used a spell of psychokinetic force to pull it to him,” said Annarah.

The dread worsened within Caina.

“I do not understand why he did not slay us all,” said Mazyan. “He could have done so easily.”

“Likely he wishes to withdraw to his palace and work the final spells of the Apotheosis at once,” said Sulaman.

“No,” said Caina. “No, it’s worse than that. He’s not going to work the Apotheosis.”

Kylon’s face tightened. “Then you think…”

“He’s going to Pyramid Isle,” said Caina. “Right now.”

“Pyramid Isle?” said Sulaman. “Why? That is a place of ill legend…”

“It’s not a legend,” said Caina, remembering the icy, burning feeling as Kharnaces’s Compellant Bloodcrystal had melted and forced its way into her nostrils and mouth. “A Great Necromancer called Kharnaces is imprisoned there. He worshipped Kotuluk Iblis as a god, and Callatas went to him to learn about the nagataaru. Callatas escaped, but Kharnaces laid a compulsion upon him, one that Callatas doesn’t know about. As soon as Callatas touches the Staff and the Seal, the compulsion will force him to go to Pyramid Isle at once. Callatas won’t even know why. He’ll assume it’s his own idea.”

“Then Kharnaces will claim the Staff and Seal?” said Sulaman. “He will work the Apotheosis?”

“Kharnaces doesn’t care about the Staff or the Seal or the Apotheosis,” said Caina. “He has something he calls a Conjurant Bloodcrystal, a bloodcrystal as powerful as anything the Great Necromancers wrought in the days of ancient Maat. When activated, it will completely destroy the barrier between our world and the netherworld, and the nagataaru will be able to devour our world. All Kharnaces needs to finish the Conjurant Bloodcrystal is a single drop of Callatas’s blood.”

“Then we must stop him at once,” said Sulaman.

“He has a hundred Immortals around him,” said Morgant, “the Huntress, and his own spells. He overwhelmed all of us with a flick of his wrist. Just how are we going to stop him?”

“We have to kill him,” said Caina. “He can’t leave Istarinmul.”

“Again,” said Morgant. “How?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina.

“It may be too late already,” said Laertes. “He’ll march straight to the Towers of the Sea, and unlike us, he won’t have any trouble commandeering a ship. He will be able to set sail for Pyramid Isle at once.”

“And he will have the Immortals with him the entire way,” said Kylon. “We won’t have a chance to ambush him or to take him off guard.” He looked to the north. “By the time we catch him, he’ll already be boarding his galley.”

Caina nodded, her mind racing, sorting through possible plans and discarding them one after another. Callatas was a sorcerer of immense power, and fighting and killing him would take careful planning and preparation. Caina and Kylon had killed Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan, both of them sorcerers of great power, but Callatas was stronger than both men combined. Confronting Callatas without a plan would be suicidal. Confronting him even with an excellent plan would still likely lead to defeat.

“There is another problem,” said Annarah.

“This one isn’t big enough?” said Caina.

“When we emerged from the sand, I heard Callatas talking to the Huntress,” said Annarah. “He’s sending Grand Wazir Erghulan and one of the Master Alchemists to crush the rebels. He’s also sending men to attack the Imperial Embassy with orders to kill everyone there.”

A bolt of rage cut through Caina’s dread. Martin and Claudia were at the embassy, sheltering there as they waited for the political fallout of Cassander’s defeat to settle. Their newborn son Corvalis was with them, named for Claudia’s brother and Caina’s slain lover. The thought that Callatas would kill Claudia’s son and Corvalis’s nephew set her anger blazing…

No. She had to think of something clever right now.

“It seems that Lord Martin is on his own, I fear,” said Nasser. “We must go after the Grand Master. Many more lives will be lost than theirs if Callatas reaches Pyramid Isle.”

“I won’t abandon Martin and Claudia,” said Caina. Perhaps she could send them a warning, get them to safety before the Immortals stormed the embassy.

“We may not be able to help them,” said Laertes. “Lord Martin has a hundred Imperial Guards. Callatas can call upon every fighting man in Istarinmul. Worse, the Grand Wazir’s army could attack the embassy on its way out of the city.”

“We cannot delay,” said Annarah.

“And Mazyan and I must depart from you,” said Sulaman. “My place is with the rebels. I thank you for your aid, but…”

“If you wander the streets alone, or go out into the countryside,” said Caina, “you’ll be killed. Even with your Oath Shadow watching over you. There are too many bandits and mercenaries crawling all over the Trabazon steppes, and Callatas will have you killed just to get out of his way. Likely he will send Kalgri after you. ”

Her mind raced. Disaster threatened on every side, but Caina couldn’t be everywhere at once. She had to be everywhere at once, but she could not…

Then, all at once, she understood what she had to do, and her heart turned to ashes within her.

“All right,” said Caina. “We have to stop Callatas, we have to get Sulaman out of the city and to Tanzir Shahan, and we have to warn Martin and Claudia.”

“Are we stating the obvious now?” said Morgant. “We…”

“I’ll go after Callatas,” said Caina. “Morgant and Annarah will come with me. We’ll get to Murat, and force him to sail for Pyramid Isle at once. If we’re fortunate, we can sink Callatas’s galley before he even gets to the island. Or we can arrive on the island first and set a trap for him.”

“And where will the rest of us be?” said Kylon, his voice flat.

He must have figured out what she intended.

Caina took a deep breath. “You, Nasser, and Laertes will go to the Imperial Embassy and warn Claudia and Martin. Get them out of the city, and head south with Sulaman to join Tanzir. Without Sulaman, they’re just rebels. With Sulaman, they are following the true heir of the Padishah, and they are marching to the city to depose his father’s murderers. Tanzir has never commanded men in battle, but you have, Nasser, and so have you, Kylon. They’ll need your help.”

“I should go with you,” said Kylon at once. “The valikon is the best weapon to use against Callatas and the Huntress.”

“Aye,” said Caina, “but a ghostsilver dagger would work just as well. And Kalgri won’t be with Callatas. He’ll send her away to keep her from interfering to his journey to Pyramid Isle. Likely he will send her after Sulaman.” She shot a quick look around the nearby buildings. For all she knew Kalgri was watching them right now, wrapped in her stolen shadow-cloak, waiting for the right opportunity to attack Sulaman. “Or she’ll go to the Imperial Embassy and kill everyone there.”

Kylon let out a long breath. “I should still go with you.”

Caina shook her head. “I…”

She wanted to pour her heart out to him, to ask him to come with her to Pyramid Isle, but she did not want to do so in front of Morgant and Sulaman and Mazyan. And the cold part of her mind, the part that Halfdan and the Ghosts had trained, knew that this was the only way. Callatas might be strong enough to shake off the compulsion. If the Grand Wazir crushed the rebels, Callatas could return with the Staff and the Seal and the Star and complete the Apotheosis without opposition. If Callatas failed to resist the compulsion and let Kharnaces claim a drop of his blood, the Great Necromancer would unleash the nagataaru and destroy the world.

Absolutely everything was at stake, and neither Caina nor Kylon could be everywhere at once.

“I think,” said Nasser at last, “that this may be our best chance to triumph.”

“Or at least,” said Annarah, “to avert disaster.”

“We should go at once,” said Nasser.

At last Kylon gave a single sharp nod, his eyes still fixed on Caina.

“Give me just a moment,” said Caina, “and then we’ll go. I need a word alone with Kylon.”

###

Kylon followed Caina into the alley. They were close enough to the others that they could come to their aid if necessary, but far enough away that they could not be overheard.

His mind kept working, trying to find a better plan, a way he could accompany Caina to Pyramid Isle. If she tried to fight Callatas on her own, she was probably going to die. Even if Kylon went with her, they would likely both die fighting against the Grand Master. Her plan was logical, but his heart screamed against it. Gods of storm and brine, after everything they had gone through together, did they have to be separated now? She had saved his life below the Craven’s Tower. He had saved her in Rumarah. Together they had beaten Cassander and stopped him from destroying Istarinmul.

“Caina,” said Kylon as she turned to face him.

A spasm went over her face, and before he could say anything else, she reached up, seized the back of his head, and kissed him long and hard. At the physical contact her emotions flooded over his senses, a mixture of love and overpowering dread and anguish. She didn’t want to go to Pyramid Isle without him. She didn’t want to go anywhere without him.

“I’m sorry,” said Caina when they broke apart, her voice soft and unsteady. “I’m sorry. I…should have seen it sooner, I should have found a ship, I…”

Kylon shook his head. “We all tried. If we had taken the road to Catekharon the same thing would have happened when Callatas and the Huntress caught up to us.”

“I know,” said Caina. “It’s just…”

“You have a habit of blaming yourself,” said Kylon.

She laughed a little. “I suppose I do.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I wish you would come with me. I wish I could come with you. But this is the best plan. Gods, I wish I could think of something better, but I cannot.”

“No,” said Kylon. “No, you’re right. This is the best course. Bitter as it is.”

“I know,” said Caina. “Keep Sulaman and Tanzir safe. And Nasser, though I expect he can take care of himself.”

“I will,” said Kylon. “I promise it.”

“And…watch out for Kalgri,” said Caina. “She’ll be coming after Tanzir or Sulaman at some point, I am certain of it. She…”

“The next time,” said Kylon, “that I fight the Red Huntress, she is going to die. She escaped me at New Kyre, at Rumarah, and again in the Alqaarin Bazaar. Not again.” He tapped the valikon’s hilt. “She will not escape again.”

Caina nodded. “Please. Be careful.”

“I will,” said Kylon. “I would tell you to be careful but I know you shall not listen.”

She smiled. “I’m always careful.”

“For such a gifted liar,” said Kylon, “that was a poor showing.”

Her smile widened a little at that. “This isn’t a lie, though. I love you.”

He pulled her close and held her for a moment, her emotional turmoil matching his own. Many times during his years as a noble of House Kardamnos and a stormdancer of New Kyre had he sailed away from the city on one of the fleet’s warships. Every single time women had lined the docks as the vessel departed, watching their husbands go to war. The emotional aura from the men had always been grim, fear for the future mixed the expectation of future loss, fear for their wives in their absence, the fear that they would never see them again.

For the first time in his life, Kylon understood that.

The fear within him was sharper. The wives of the soldiers and rowers and sailors had been safe in New Kyre. Caina was going after a powerful sorcerer, a man who had killed hundreds of thousands and would not scruple to cut down anyone who got in his way.

Because of Callatas, it was entirely possible that both Kylon and Caina would be dead within a few weeks, along with countless others.

“I love you,” said Kylon.

Caina bit her lip and nodded.

“And if I never see you again,” said Kylon, “I just wanted to…”

“No,” whispered Caina. “No, don’t say that. We will see each other again, Kylon, I swear it. No matter how far I have to go, no matter how long it takes, we will see each other again.” She stiffened. “A pact.”

“A pact?” said Kylon.

“We’ll make a pact, you and I,” said Caina. “No matter what happens, we’ll be victorious. We’ll come back to Istarinmul.” Her voice trembled a little before she got it back under control. “Whoever gets back first will wait at the House of Agabyzus. If you get here first, wait for me.” She swallowed. “If I get back first, I’ll wait for you there until the stars go out and the sun turns to ash, I swear it.”

“I swear it, too,” said Kylon, gripping her hands.

For a long moment they stood there, her emotions washing over him with every beat of her heart.

But the moment was not long enough.

“We have to go,” said Caina.

“I know,” said Kylon. He forced himself to let go of her hands and step back. “Nasser and Laertes and I will get Sulaman and Lord Martin’s family out of the city. And then…”

“Wait,” said Caina, reaching for her pack. She tugged it off her shoulders and rummaged through it for a moment. “Wait…here!”

She straightened up and pushed a small leather pouch into his hand. Kylon opened it and saw crumpled lead foil. He pushed the foil aside, and the pale silvery glow of four vials of Elixir Restorata gleamed in the depths of the pouch, even as he felt the potent arcane power of the thick silver fluid in the crystalline vials.

“Four vials of Elixir Restorata,” said Caina. “Half of what’s left. If you need them. I hope you don’t. But if you do…”

“Thank you,” said Kylon, tucking the pouch away. “I will only use it if necessary.”

“I know,” said Caina. She closed her eyes for a moment, and seemed to pull herself together. “We had best go. If I don’t do it now, I don’t think I ever will.”

“Yes,” said Kylon, his voice a thick rasp in his throat.

He followed Caina to the street where the others waited. Without a word she set off in a run for the Alqaarin Harbor, Annarah and Morgant hurrying after her. Kylon watched her go until she disappeared from sight.

He realized that it was possible, even probable, that it might be the last time he ever saw her.

“Lord Kylon,” said Nasser, his voice quiet but calm. “We should hasten.”

“Agreed,” said Kylon, cold resolution closing around him.

He might not be able to help Caina against Callatas…but Callatas had many servants, and perhaps the gods would have mercy upon them, but Kylon would not.

Chapter 6: Exiled

They had reached the southern edge of the Emirs’ Quarter by the time Kylon heard the first drums.

He slowed for a moment, looking for the source of the sound. His first thought was that it was thunder, but it never rained in Istarinmul, and it rarely even became overcast. Another boom rang out, and another and another, accompanied by the moaning wail of a giant horn.

“Sounds like the drums of a Legion,” observed Laertes.

“It is the drums and the Great Horn of the armories of the Golden Palace,” said Sulaman, Mazyan keeping pace alongside him. “By tradition, whenever the armies of Istarinmul march to war, the Great Horn is sounded and the drums are beaten until the army departs from the city.”

“Then Erghulan is marching south to attack Tanzir,” said Nasser.

“And if he heeds Callatas, he will send men to kill Lord Martin and Lady Claudia,” said Kylon. “We had better hurry.”

“I suggest you go ahead, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser. “You can move faster than any of us, and the more warning Lord Martin has, the better his chances. We shall catch up as soon as we can.”

“Aye,” said Kylon. He wasted no more breath with speech, but drew upon the sorcery of air, as much as he could manage, and started running again.

This time he hurtled forward with the speed of the wind, the street blurring around him. When drawing upon the power of the air, Kylon could move almost as fast as a galloping horse. He couldn’t change direction easily, of course, but it was almost a straight line to the mansion that housed the Imperial Embassy. Caina had used that against him when they had first met, eluding him by going around corners faster than he could follow…

Caina.

No, he couldn’t think about her now.

He suspected there was about to be a great deal of fighting, and that needed his full attention.

The Imperial Embassy came into sight. It was one of the smaller mansions of the Emirs’ Quarter, not even a proper palace, but by the standards of most of the rest of the world it was opulent. The mansion itself, fronted with gleaming white marble, stood in the midst of cultivated grounds. A wall about nine feet tall surrounded the grounds, topped with iron spikes. Four Imperial Guards stood at the gate, clad in black plate armor and helms, long purple cloaks hanging from their shoulders, broadswords at their belts and heavy shields upon their left arms.

Kylon released the sorcery of air and came to a stop a few yards from the gate. The Guards reacted to the sight of a man running with inhuman speed with admirable haste, drawing their swords and raising their shields. They relaxed a little when they saw him. Likely they remembered him from their desperate battle through Istarinmul’s streets to stop Cassander.

“You must prepare yourselves,” said Kylon. “The Grand Wazir is sending men to kill Lord Martin and Lady Claudia. Alert the others!”

He did not wait for an answer, but ran forward, drawing on the sorcery of water for aid. One of the Guards shouted a question, but Kylon leaped into the air, grabbed one of the iron spikes, and flipped himself over the wall. He landed in the gardens, his sorcery-strengthened legs cushioning the blow, and sprinted towards the mansion’s doors. Kylon kept his power in place as he pushed open the doors and ran into the entry hall. Claudia had wrapped every entrance and window in wards to detect the Silent Hunters. Every Umbarian soldier in Istarinmul was either dead or in hiding, but the wards ought to alert Claudia to Kylon’s presence.

He came to a stop in the entry hall as a dozen Imperial Guards rushed down the stairs, weapons ready. Kylon raised his hands and waited. One of the Guards had the plume of a centurion upon his helmet, and Kylon remembered him from the fight against the Umbarians. Caina had known him in Malarae, while she had been masquerading as Sonya Tornesti…

“Centurion Tylas,” said Kylon, the name coming at last.

“Lord Kylon,” said Tylas, surprised. He raised his hand, and his men lowered their swords.

“I must speak with Lord Martin at once,” said Kylon. “Erghulan Amirasku and Callatas are moving against the rebels, and they’ve decided to kill you all on the way out. Centurion, you must prepare. The enemy will arrive at any moment. Oh, and Nasser Glasshand is right behind me, along with some allies.”

Tylas turned and gave out a stream of orders, and the Guards began running from the entry hall and into the gardens. “Come with me, Lord Kylon. Lord Martin and Lady Claudia are in the study.”

Without waiting for an answer the centurion strode across the entry hall to the study door, knocked, and then swung it open. Shelves lined one wall of the study, mostly empty, since Lord Martin was too busy for idle reading, and tall windows overlooked the gardens. Lord Martin rose from his desk, frowning as he saw the Imperial Guards running across the grounds. He was a fit-looking man with gray eyes and graying black hair, the very image of a sober Nighmarian lord of the Empire.

Claudia stood before the desk, wearing a green gown, her son cradled in her arms. She was tall, with long blond hair and striking green eyes. Her recent pregnancy had thickened her figure somewhat, but she carried it well. Her newborn son Corvalis rested in her arms, his eyes closed, his hands clenched into little fists.

A flicker of old pain went through Kylon at the sight of the child. Thalastre had been carrying his child when Kalgri had stabbed her through the stomach. Once he had wondered what it would be like to carry his child in his arms, and then the Red Huntress had come.

Now he knew how much more vulnerable it made Martin and Claudia. He also knew what kind of men the Immortals were, and he knew they would kill the baby while Martin and Claudia watched. Nothing, he had learned, enraged Caina like someone threatening the children of someone she liked, and Kylon found that he didn’t care for it either.

“Lord Kylon,” said Martin. “Something is happening, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” said Kylon.

“Where’s Caina?” said Claudia, frowning as she turned towards him. She spoke with the cool, precise accent of a Nighmarian noblewoman. “Did she send you?”

“In a way,” said Kylon. “You have to flee the city. Callatas has the Staff and Seal, and Caina went after him. He also sent Erghulan Amirasku to crush Tanzir and the rebels, and on their way out of the city, they’re going to kill you.”

“But that is madness,” said Martin. “If he murders the Emperor’s ambassador, it will provoke war with the Empire. The Umbarians are already hostile after Cassander’s failure, and Istarinmul will find itself caught between two foes…”

“I doubt Callatas cares,” said Kylon. “I will tell you the entire story once we are clear, but we must go. The Immortals will arrive at any moment.”

“There are no ships in any of the harbors,” said Claudia. “We cannot leave the city…”

“You must come south and join Tanzir,” said Kylon. “We found the Padishah’s last son…”

“What?” said Martin, his eyes widening.

“Lord Kylon is right, husband,” said Claudia. “If Callatas has gone berserk and decided to kill all his enemies, we are not safe here.”

“Agreed,” said Martin. “We’ll take the money and the documents, and as much food as every man and woman can carry. I will see to the Imperial Guards. Wife, take charge of Dromio and the household. We should leave as soon as possible.”

“Aye,” said Claudia, turning towards the door to the entry hall.

“I will await you at the gate, Lord Martin,” said Kylon. “Nasser and the prince should arrive shortly.”

“Nasser’s here?” said Martin. “Splendid. The man is clever, and I hope he’ll have a quick way out of the city for us.” He strode around the desk, calling for Tylas, and clapped Kylon on the shoulder. “Well, it seems we must go into battle together again. Rhames and Caer Magia, the day of the golden dead, Cassander’s madness with the ifriti – perhaps someday we shall meet without a dire battle awaiting us.”

Despite his grim mood, Kylon laughed. “Someday. Not this day, though.”

“Aye, and we’ll get properly drunk together, as comrades ought,” said Martin. “Perhaps it is a fitting end to my time as a Lord Ambassador that I get chased from the city.”

“Hardly. You were successful as Lord Ambassador,” said Kylon, walking with him into the entry hall. He saw Claudia hastening up the stairs, accompanied by an Istarish serving woman in a tan dress and headscarf. Kirzi, that was her name – the Huntress had threatened to kill her in the Alqaarin Bazaar. “You kept Istarinmul from allying with the Umbarians. And if you save the prince’s life by getting him out of the city, he will likely become an ally of your Emperor when he ascends to the throne of the Padishah.”

He said it with more optimism than he felt.

“Gods of strife and battle, but I hope you’re right,” said Martin. “Tylas! My armor!”

“I will await you outside,” said Kylon, and he strode from the mansion, hurrying back across the grounds to the wall and the gate. As Kylon approached, Nasser, Laertes, Sulaman, and Mazyan came into sight, breathing hard from their run across the city.

“What news?” said Nasser as Kylon joined them.

“I’ve warned Lord Martin,” said Kylon. “He acted at once, and is preparing to flee the city with us.”

“Good,” said Nasser. “Lord Martin always struck me as a sensible man. I am glad we did not need to waste time convincing him of the obvious.”

“No,” said Kylon, looking up and down the broad street outside the mansion. “No, he has survived far too many battles for that. Lady Claudia, as well.” She had been with them at Caer Magia, and then in New Kyre on the day of the golden dead. She had also given birth to her first child in a ruined shop as Cassander prepared to destroy the city. No, both Lord Martin and Lady Claudia were too experienced to prevaricate in the face of obvious danger.

So far the street outside was deserted, but Kylon doubted that would last. The sound of the distant drums still boomed out from the Golden Palace, accompanied by the moan of the Great Horn. The embassy might have stood at the edge of the Emirs’ Quarter, but it was still too close to the Golden Palace. Kylon expected the Immortals to arrive at any second.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, black-armored forms came marching around the distant corner.

“The enemy is here,” said Laertes.

It was a troop of at least fifty Immortals, maybe more. Kylon cursed under his breath and drew the valikon from its shoulder sheath, the silvery metal rasping against the leather of the scabbard.

“We should withdraw into the mansion,” said Tylas. Kylon glanced over his shoulder. The centurion had arrived with a dozen more Imperial Guards. Servants spilled from the mansion, carrying bundles of food and clothing, while the grooms brought horses out from the mansion’s stables.

“I suggest we make our stand here, centurion,” said Nasser. “If we retreat within the mansion, the Immortals can easily blockade us and summon more reinforcements than we can defeat.”

“Or they could simply lob amphorae of Hellfire onto our heads,” said Laertes.

“Aye, that’s what I would do in the enemy’s place,” said Tylas. “All right. We’ll fight our way out.” He pointed to one of the Guards. “Go find Lord Martin and stay with him. Once we’re ready to depart, I think we’ll need to move quickly.”

“I suspect Erghulan plans to take you unawares,” said Nasser. “If we can repulse this first attack, we shall have a window to escape before he sends additional forces.”

“Nasser is correct,” said Sulaman, his voice distant as he gazed as the approaching Immortals. “If we defeat this group, we can escape. If we linger, we shall die.”

“So sure of that, are you?” said Tylas.

Mazyan bristled a little, but Sulaman only nodded. “I am certain.”

Tylas grunted. “Well, let’s get to the killing. Guards! Prepare to greet our guests.”

Nasser drew his scimitar, and Mazyan gestured, the blade of smokeless flame appearing in his grasp once more. The sight did not startle the Imperial Guards. They had seen stranger things. Kylon shifted the valikon to his right hand, drawing a dagger from his belt with his left. He summoned his power, and white mist started to swirl around the blade, a chill radiating from the weapon.

“Must be useful,” said Laertes.

“Eh?” said Kylon.

“You can always have a cold drink on a hot day,” said Laertes.

“If we live through this madness,” said Kylon, “perhaps I’ll hang up my sword and go into business selling iced wine on hot days.” He could just imagine the reaction of the Assembly and its magistrates if they ever learned that a former High Seat and Archon was selling wine in the Istarish bazaars like any other common merchant, and the thought made him want to laugh.

The Immortals stopped perhaps a dozen yards from the gate. Only fifty Immortals seemed insufficient to storm the Imperial Embassy. Perhaps Erghulan had thought fifty Immortals, with their savagery and inhuman strength, would be sufficient to overpower the Imperial Guards. Kylon had fought alongside Imperial Guards, and he knew better. Or maybe these fifty Immortals would pin the Imperial embassy in place while reinforcements arrived. Kylon had seen nothing to indicate that the Grand Wazir was that clever, but perhaps the Master Alchemist Rhataban who was advising him was smart enough to think of it.

One of the Immortals stepped forward, his skull-masked helmet adorned with a khalmir’s sign of rank. “We desire to speak with Lord Martin…”

“No, don’t bother,” said Tylas. “We know why you’re here. Turn around and head back to your master. If you attack the Lord Ambassador’s residence, then we will show you how the Empire makes war upon its enemies.”

The Immortal shrugged. “Have it your way.”

He made a sharp gesture, and the Immortals charged for the gate, scimitars and chain whips ready.

Kylon was already moving, shooting forward with the speed of air sorcery. He headed towards the leftmost Immortal, who drew back his chain whip to strike. Kylon flung his dagger, the blade leaving a misty trail as it spun from his fingers. The Immortal raised his arm to block, and the frozen blade shattered against the black armor, glittering splinters falling to the street. Yet the cold power around the weapon flowed into the Immortal, sheathing his arm in a layer of frost. For an instant the Immortal could not move his arm, the plates of his armor fused by the frost, and that instant was all that Kylon needed. He struck at once, swinging the valikon with both hands, and buried the blade in the Immortal’s neck.

Nasser and Mazyan attacked next, driving into the Immortals on Kylon’s right. Nasser struck with his gloved fist, smashing an Immortal’s helmet, his scimitar darting left and right to pick off any attacks aimed his way. Mazyan blurred into the battle, slowing as the scimitar of smokeless flame erupted from his hand once more. One of the Immortals raised his scimitar to parry, and Mazyan flicked his wrist, the blade of fire slicing through both the scimitar and the Immortal’s head without resistance. Kylon killed another Immortal, and then another, the sorcery of air giving him the speed to stay ahead of their attacks. Yet the Immortals began to drive them back, forcing their way forward through sheer weight of numbers. Kylon had never thought he would miss Morgant, but the assassin’s aid would have been welcome.

Then the Imperial Guards attacked.

A volley of javelins rose overhead in a high arc, and then fell like a steel-tipped rain. The heavy javelins had been designed to render shields useless, but they still had enough weight and momentum to punch through armor. A dozen Immortals rocked, wounded by the javelins, and the Imperial Guards advanced at a quick trot, shields interlocked, broadswords drawn back to strike. Kylon hastened out of the way, as did Nasser and Mazyan, and the Guards crashed into the Immortals, swords rising and falling. For a moment the two sides wavered, locked in battle with each other.

Kylon sprinted forward and jumped, the sorcery of water fueling his leap. He soared over the heads of the combatants, white mist swirling around his left fist once more, and landed behind the Immortals. As he did, the mist around his fist solidified, and he brought the sphere of glacial ice down upon the helmet of the nearest Immortal. The black steel crumpled like a cooking pot beneath a wagon’s wheel, and the Immortal fell, the ice around Kylon’s hand shattering. He seized the valikon’s hilt with both hands and went on the attack, striking and stabbing and dodging. The drums booming from the Golden Palace seemed to thunder in time to his pulse, and Kylon killed and killed, red blood sliding down the valikon’s ghostsilver blade.

“Lord Kylon!” Nasser’s voice thundered over the battle.

Kylon whirled and saw a flash of white further down the street. It was a middle-aged Istarish man wearing armor that had been enameled white, a brilliant white cloak flowing from his shoulders like a fall of snow upon a mountain’s slope. For an instant Kylon squinted at the man, his armor dazzling in the noon sun, and then an old memory stirred in his mind.

The Alchemists of the College wore armor like that when they went to battle, transmuted through their spells to be as light as paper and as hard as diamond. The man was gesturing, golden fire flaring around his white gauntlet.

Kylon raced towards him, and then a blast of golden fire erupted from the Alchemist’s hand, moving faster than an arrow. He had no time to dodge or duck, and he reacted on instinct, snapping the valikon up in a block, his muscles aided by the speed of air sorcery. The blast of golden fire struck the ghostsilver blade and shattered in a spray of brilliant sparks, a keening howl going through the air as the valikon unraveled the spell. The street beneath him shuddered, portions of the stone becoming a peculiar blue crystalline substance.

The spell would have transmuted Kylon into one of the crystalline statues standing upon the walls of the College of Alchemists. He had heard that Callatas liked to do that to his victims. Apparently some of the lesser Alchemists imitated their Grand Master’s taste.

Kylon started forward, but the Alchemist flung something small and glittering. It was likely a vial holding an alchemical elixir of some kind, and Kylon didn’t want to touch it. He dodged to the side, and the vial exploded against one of the crystalline patches in the street, erupting an instant later in a man-sized flare of snarling crimson fire.

Hellfire. The Alchemist was throwing Hellfire at him, the secret weapon of the College of Alchemists. In ancient days the fleet of New Kyre had assailed Istarinmul, and the Alchemists’ Hellfire burned the entire Kyracian fleet to embers. Kylon had seen Hellfire devour the Inferno, the ancient stronghold of the Immortals.

A few drops of Hellfire would be enough to set him ablaze.

Again the Alchemist flung a vial of Hellfire, and again Kylon had to dodge as a second pillar of howling crimson flame erupted from the street. The fire did not last long, but it was as hot as a blacksmith’s forge, so hot the street cracked from the flames. As Kylon turned, the Alchemist reached for a third vial, but suddenly staggered back, grunting as if something unseen had struck him across the chest. The Alchemist looked towards the gate, and Kylon saw Claudia standing there, left hand outstretched, her right hand gesturing as she gathered power for another spell. The Alchemist gestured at her, a bolt of golden fire leaping from his hand. Claudia crossed her arms across her chest, a haze of grayish-blue light shimmering around her, and the Alchemist’s transmutation spell shattered against her wards. Her level of arcane power was unremarkable, but she had always been quite capable at wards.

And that ward gave Kylon the time he needed to close with the Alchemist.

He struck three times in rapid succession, but his first two blows rebounded from the Alchemist’s cuirass, and the third bounced off the helmet. The armor was hard, harder than stone. Nevertheless the power of Kylon’s strikes knocked the Alchemist back. The man fumbled at his belt, reaching for a leather pouch. Likely it was the pouch that held his remaining vials of Hellfire.

And that pouch, Kylon suspected, had not been strengthened through alchemy.

He hammered with the valikon, the pommel smashing into the pouch. He heard something shatter, and Kylon threw himself backwards. The Alchemist snarled a furious curse, reaching into the pouch, and then his eyes widened.

An instant later the Hellfire from the broken vials ignited, sheathing the Alchemist in a pillar of crimson flame.

The roar of the fire drowned out the Alchemist’s screams. His armor did a good job of protecting him from the flames, but there were gaps in the white metal, and the Hellfire found them. More fire erupted from the Alchemist’s helmet and gauntlets as his clothes ignited, and the man fell to his knees, pawing at himself and screaming.

Kylon aimed his next blow at the gap below the Alchemist’s helmet and put him out of his misery.

He turned, the heat from the burning man stinging his face and arms, and sought more foes, but saw that the Immortals had fallen back in disarray from the gate with over half their number slain. The Imperial Guards had taken causalities as well, but their superior discipline and ordered formation had held against the Immortals’ savage fury. Time and time again experienced commanders had told Kylon that discipline and training defeated individual valor, and once again he had seen proof of it before his eyes.

Kylon ran back to the gate and saw a crowd of servants hurrying from the mansion, carrying food and clothing. Lord Martin’s seneschal, a paunchy Nighmarian commoner named Dromio, directed them. Every man and woman carried several loaves of bread. Likely Martin had purchased them in the event of a siege, but hopefully it would keep them from starving until they reached Tanzir Shahan’s army.

“Thank you for your assistance, Lady Claudia,” said Kylon, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Gods of storm and sea, but that Hellfire burned hot.

Claudia offered a tight smile. “My father always said the Alchemists never knew how to overcome a proper warding spell. It seems he was right about at least one thing in his life.” Martin approached, clad in the black armor of an Imperial Guard, leading a horse by the reins.

“My lady, my lord,” said Dromio. “I believe we are ready to flee.”

“The enemy has fallen back,” said Tylas.

“The way is clear for now,” said Sulaman, that distant look on his face. Kylon wondered just how his power of foretelling worked. How precisely could he control it? The Immortals in the Desert Maiden should have killed him, but he had somehow outmaneuvered them. “But if we delay, we shall certainly perish.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Martin. “Tylas, get ready to move out. Imperial Guards in the saddle, spread out to surround the servants. I do not want to leave anyone behind to the mercies of Erghulan and his Immortals.” He looked back at Sulaman. “Just who the devil are you?”

“I know him, husband,” said Claudia. “He’s a poet. Ah…Sulaman, isn’t it? I think I saw you recite once at one of the coffeehouses in the Old Quarter.”

“Actually,” said Kylon, “this is Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, the sole surviving son of the Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon, heir to the throne of the Most Divine Padishah, and if Nahas is truly dead…the rightful Padishah of Istarinmul.”

Martin and Claudia shared a look for a moment.

“I see,” said Martin at last.

“Caina has worn off on you, hasn’t she?” said Claudia to Kylon. “You’ve certainly picked up her touch of the dramatic.”

“I greet you, Lord Martin,” said Sulaman, “and ask your help to reach the emir Tanzir’s army in the south. You have seen firsthand how Erghulan and Callatas have driven Istarinmul to the edge of ruin. We must resist them and restore sound governance to Istarinmul. I would be grateful for any aid the Emperor’s ambassador might choose to give.”

“Then it seems we see the conclusion of a plan long-prepared,” said Martin. “Come. The sooner we depart from Istarinmul, the better. Lord Kylon, a horse?”

“No need,” said Kylon. His shoulders and arms ached from the effort of fighting, and his head buzzed from the amount of sorcerous force he had used. Riding on horseback seemed pleasant at the moment, but it would have to wait. “I fight better on foot.”

###

Kylon had feared they would have to fight their way free of the city, but escaping Istarinmul proved easier than he thought. Once, he suspected, the informants of the Teskilati would have followed them, directing the Immortals to their path. But Cassander Nilas had destroyed the leadership of the Padishah’s secret police and the headquarters of the watchmen at the Crows’ Tower, and both the Teskilati and the watchmen had fallen into disarray. No one challenged them as they rode south. As the passed through the tenements of the Anshani Quarter, gangs watched them from the alleyways, but none of the thugs were reckless enough take on Imperial Guards.

The Anshani Bazaar, the vast southernmost bazaar of Istarinmul, was half-deserted. When Kylon had first come to Istarinmul, it had been packed, filled with caravans and merchants from every nation under the sun. The rebellion in the south, the depredations of the Brotherhood, and Cassander’s attack had driven off most of the merchants.

Sulaman was right. Istarinmul was dying. Callatas and Erghulan were killing it, and Callatas would kill Istarinmul and every other nation if he succeeded.

There were watchmen upon the walls, but no one stopped them as their column marched through the gate. The mounted Imperial Guards fell out in a loose screen, sending patrols across the nearby plains.

“We will have to march through most of the night, I am afraid,” said Nasser, walking alongside Lord Martin’s horse. “Erghulan’s army will march slowly, but I do not want to be caught by one of his scouting parties.”

“Nor do I,” said Martin. “The men are tired from fighting, and the servants are unused to exertions of this sort. Well, most of them.” He glanced back at Dromio. To Kylon’s mild surprise, the stout old man seemed indefatigable, marching up and down the line and helping some of the older and weaker servants along. Perhaps he thought it undignified for the seneschal of an Imperial lord to show any weakness. “But tired is better than slain.”

“I suggest, Lord Martin,” said Nasser, “that some scouts be sent to the north, to check upon the progress of the Grand Wazir’s advance.”

“I shall go,” said Kylon.

“Alone?” said Lady Claudia. She rode easily, wearing an Istarish headscarf to keep the sun off her head and neck, her son riding with her. Kylon had never given any thought to how an infant might travel on horseback, but Claudia Aberon Dorius had clearly given it a great deal of consideration, because she had obtained a small, well-padded bassinet from somewhere. Corvalis rested in it, wrapped in a light blanket, a veil stretched over him to ward off the harsh sun. He seemed comfortable enough. From time to time he cried a little, but Kylon supposed it was the nature of infants to cry, and his mother soon soothed him back asleep. “It would not be safe to go alone, Lord Kylon.”

“I would be,” said Kylon. “If I am unhorsed, I have the best chance of outrunning any enemies.”

“This is so,” said Martin. “Tylas! Find Lord Kylon a horse.” He turned towards Nasser and Sulaman. “Meanwhile, I would be most interested to learn how I wound up traveling with the Padishah’s son and heir.”

“Ah,” said Nasser, his white smile flashing over his face. “It is fortunate that I am here to tell it, because I am an excellent storyteller, and it is indeed a long story.”

Tylas found Kylon one of the lighter, faster horses, and he rode north.

The lands around Istarinmul proper were flat and arid, filled with tough brown grasses and low, rolling hills. None of the lands near the city were suitable for farmland, and all of Istarinmul’s food came from Istarish Cyrica, the Vale of Fallen Stars, and from trade with Anshan and the Empire. With trade disrupted in the aftermath of Cassander’s attack, Kylon supposed Tanzir would find it easier to starve out the city and force a surrender, assuming Erghulan’s army did not smash him first.

He wondered why the ancient Istarish had built their city in such an inhospitable place. For command of the Starfall Straits, perhaps? Caina would know. She enjoyed history, or at least found it fascinating in a way that Kylon did not. She had told him about the old tales of the Istarish, how Istarr had traveled north and founded the city after defeating the Demon Princes, seven nagataaru-possessed sorcerers who had ruled what was now Istarinmul. Caina had always had an interest in such old legends, though given how the ancient hand of the Moroaica had affected her life, he could understand her fascination.

A wave of deep, rending melancholy rolled through Kylon, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing hard. He felt Caina’s absence as keenly as a physical pain, a pain made all the worse because he didn’t know if she was safe and healthy or even alive.

For a moment he considered abandoning Nasser and Sulaman and the others and riding to find Caina, but he forced the thought aside, using the discipline he had used to wield the sorcery of water. What was done was done. If he had not been at the embassy, it was possible that the Immortals would have stormed the mansion before Nasser and Sulaman had arrived, that the Alchemist would have killed Claudia with one of the vials of Hellfire.

And Caina could take care of herself. If Kylon would have trusted anyone with Caina’s life, it would have been Caina herself.

The thought cheered him somewhat, or at least eased his mind, and he rode on, seeking the army.

It wasn’t hard to find.

Kylon reined up at the top of a shallow hill, the domes and towers of Istarinmul just visible in the haze at the horizon. To the north he saw a dark mass spreading south across the arid plains, like a poison poured from an amphora.

It was the army of Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku. Erghulan had been gathering men to defend the city, calling his soldiers and hiring mercenaries to defend against Tanzir’s anticipated siege. Those men had been useless against Cassander, but Callatas had ordered Erghulan to attack, and the Grand Wazir had obeyed. Kylon thought at least fifteen thousand men, maybe even as many as twenty thousand, had marched south. He saw horsemen and footmen both, clad in chain mail and spiked Istarish helmets. Wagons held disassembled siege engines and rows of amphorae, likely jars of Hellfire to rain upon the enemy. A group of black-armored soldiers marched in the heart of the army – thousands upon thousands of Immortals. Agabyzus had thought no more than six or seven thousand Immortals remained in Istarinmul after the destruction of the Inferno, scattered amongst the personal bodyguards of the emirs and the Alchemists. Callatas had likely recalled them all to serve in Erghulan’s army.

It was a strong force. Kylon didn’t know how many men Tanzir and the rebel emirs had gathered, but he hoped it was enough.

For a moment he hesitated, staring at the towers and gleaming domes of Istarinmul. Had Caina made it out of Istarinmul? Kylon didn’t know.

He might never know.

Again the melancholy threatened to swallow him, and Kylon pushed it aside.

There were battles to fight. More to the point, the army’s patrols might see him, and getting killed while wallowing in sadness would be a ridiculous way to die.

Kylon turned his horse and rode to rejoin the others.

Chapter 7: Negotiations

Morgant followed Caina and Annarah as they ran from the wreckage of the Desert Maiden and towards the docks of the Alqaarin Harbor.

He was surprised, both at Caina and at himself.

Morgant thought he would have gone with Sulaman and Mazyan to the rebel army. He had promised the old Padishah that he would keep Sulaman safe. Of course, Sulaman was surrounded by Nasser Glasshand, Mazyan, and Kylon of House Kardamnos, three of the most formidable fighters that Morgant had ever seen. Frankly, Sulaman was safer than he had been at any point in the last seven years or so, and Morgant could consider his promise to Nahas Tarshahzon fulfilled. A pity the old man was likely dead. Since the Inferno was destroyed, Morgant could think of any number of useful things he could have requested as his reward in lieu of access to the Inferno.

Nevertheless, he had promised to help Annarah, and Annarah was going with Caina. So Morgant found himself following Annarah and Caina as the broad blue expanse of the Alqaarin Harbor yawned before them, stretching to the sea beyond. Morgant kept his promises, so he supposed in hindsight that it wasn’t at all surprising that he was here.

Though Caina did still surprise him.

He had not expected she would be willing to part from Kylon for any reason. Her logic was sound. Callatas usually sent the Huntress to do his dirty work, and even under the influence of Kharnaces’s compulsion, he would dispatch the Huntress to kill off Tanzir and the rest of the rebel leadership. Not that Morgant cared what happened to them, but if he saw the danger, then Caina would as well. Sending the Kyracian and the valikon to protect them was the rational choice, the cold and logical choice.

Yet Morgant had not expected that from Caina. For all her cleverness, she was still a young woman in love, and young women in love thought with their hearts, not their heads. But she had made the hard choice nevertheless. Morgant found himself impressed, just as he had found himself impressed that night in the burning wreckage of the Craven’s Tower, when Caina had threatened to kill him unless he helped Kylon. She might have been a young woman in love, but she was a hard young woman, which was why he had chosen her to help him rescue Annarah from the Inferno…and Caina was the reason that Annarah was free and the Inferno was a pile of slag.

Caina came to a stop, looking around.

“What is it?” said Annarah, lifting her left hand. Her pyrikon had returned to its bracelet form, but he knew she could return it to the form of a staff in an instant. “Foes?”

“Not presently,” said Caina. She had led them down an alley off the main street, at the very boundary between the harbor district and the Alqaarin Quarter proper. A mixture of warehouses and taverns lined the streets, with many of the taverns doubling as brothels. Caina walked a short way up the alley, staring at one of the taverns. It had begun its life as a squat warehouse, but then someone had added two more floors of rented rooms on the rooftop.

“Are we stopping for a drink?” said Morgant. “Seems strange to do when the fate of kingdoms and empires are in flux.”

“We’re not buying a drink,” said Caina, still contemplating the tavern. “We’re negotiating.”

“With whom?” said Morgant.

“Captain Murat and his crew,” said Caina. “You’ve met them. Murat is stubborn, and he won’t want to set sail until tomorrow.”

“Perhaps the sound of the drums and the Great Horn will persuade him otherwise,” said Annarah.

“Perhaps,” agreed Caina. “But Murat’s selfish, not stupid…”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” said Morgant.

Caina kept talking. “He knows about the rebellion, and he’ll assume that the Grand Wazir is marching south to assail the rebels. He knows that has nothing to do with him, and that he’ll get a great deal of money from Nasser if he sails tomorrow. So he’ll stay put. We just have to persuade him to leave early.”

“Unless,” said Morgant, “the sound of the war drums convinced him to abandon us and leave Istarinmul, lest his crew gets press-ganged into the Padishah’s army.”

Caina hesitated. “It’s possible. But I doubt it. Murat will stay put. There’s too much money at stake. We just need to convince him to leave right now.”

“And how are we going to do that?” said Morgant. “Ask nicely? Or you’ll bat your eyelashes at him? I don’t think the Kyracian would approve. Unless you’ve forgotten about him already.”

“Morgant,” said Annarah, her disapproval plain.

He wanted to see how Caina would react. Her relationship with the Kyracian drove her, but it was also a source of weakness. If she indulged that weakness at the wrong moment, it might get them all killed, and Morgant would be unable to keep his word, which troubled him more than the prospect of death itself.

Yet Caina did not react, save a brief tightening of a muscle near her left eye. She knew him well enough by now to know his methods. Annoying, that.

“We convince him to leave early,” said Caina, reaching into her pack, “like this.”

She yanked out a mask, pulling it over her head, and then donned her Ghost shadow-cloak. It seemed to darken the air around her, wrapping around her like a shadow as she drew up the cowl. By some secret the Ghost nightkeepers had learned to wrap silk with shadows, creating the shadow-cloaks. That cloak blended and merged with the shadows, enhancing Caina’s already formidable abilities at stealth. It also shielded her mind from detection spells and thought-controlling sorcery, though since she was now a valikarion, it was hardly necessary.

And since she was standing in the middle of an alley on a sunlit day, the cloak’s abilities at stealth were useless.

Morgant scoffed. “What, you’re going to ask him as the Balarigar? Murat will just laugh at you and hand you over to the Grand Wazir.”

The bounty on the Balarigar’s head, last Morgant had heard, was still two million bezants. In fact, one of the official decrees was nailed to the door of the tavern. The Grand Wazir had worn out an army of scribes publishing those decrees. Morgant had no doubt that Murat would murder his own mother for a tenth of that sum.

“Of course not,” said Caina, her voice a muffled from the mask. “Follow me into the common room. Listen to me, and when I run up the stairs to the second floor, wait a few seconds, and then shout that the Balarigar is fleeing to the Alqaarin ship in the harbor. Got that?”

Morgant groaned. “You’re going to do something clever.”

“Hopefully,” said Caina. She took a deep breath, and her voice changed, becoming deeper, raspier, a hissing snarl that matched the shadow-cloak. Morgant had to admit it was an impressive bit of theatricality. “Follow me.”

She threw open the tavern door, pausing a bit in the entrance. Morgant heard the murmur of surprise from the inside of the tavern, followed by a shocked silence. He looked at Annarah and rolled his eyes, but to his surprise she grinned. Annarah was so honest that she enjoyed Caina’s little ruses more than she should have.

He sighed and followed Annarah into the tavern.

The common room was crowded. All the porters who would have been unloading ships at the docks and stocking the warehouses had nothing to do, so they came to the taverns and drank. Porters and rowers and sailors, both slave and free, sat the benches and tables. The dockside taverns were egalitarian in their devotion to selling cheap wine to both slave and free alike. Every eye was upon Caina as she strode into the common room, the shadow-cloak flowing around her. Morgant admitted it did look more impressive in the dim light of the common room.

“I am the Balarigar!” announced Caina in her disguised voice. Her words thundered through the room. “I have slain the vile sorcerer Cassander Nilas, and I call upon the men of Istarinmul to join me as we march upon the Golden Palace and cast Grand Master Callatas from his throne of lies!”

No one moved.

“Join me,” said Caina, “and together we shall defeat the Grand Master and free Istarinmul from his tyranny.”

Still no one moved. Morgant could read their expressions easily enough, and he could tell every man was thinking the same thing. The Balarigar was here, alone…and the Grand Wazir had put a bounty of two million bezants upon his head. Whoever killed the Balarigar here and now would never have to unload a ship again.

Caina dashed up the stairs, and Morgant shared a look with Annarah.

“After him!” said Morgant. “He’s fleeing to an Alqaarin ship in the harbor! After him, fools! If we take him, we can split the bounty! After him! Stop him from getting on that ship!”

He ran up the stairs, Annarah following. Morgant saw Caina vanish onto the third floor, and he ran faster. At the third floor, he saw Caina stop in a doorway, beckoning to him, and he and Annarah ran after her, crowding into a cramped bedroom that stank of sweat and worse things. Caina slammed the door and barred it behind them, but before she did, Morgant heard the sound of the mob rousing itself to action.

“We’re trapped,” said Annarah. “Now what?”

Caina nodded, pulling off her mask and shadow-cloak and shoving them back into her pack. “Morgant. Cut us a door.”

Morgant drew his black dagger, its edge glinting in the dim light coming through the room’s sole window. The rickety walls of the room were built of cheap brick and mortar, and presented no challenge to his enspelled weapon.

“So why did we enrage the mob?” said Annarah.

“It’s simple,” said Morgant, stabbing the dagger into the brickwork. He dragged the weapon down, carving a glowing line into the bricks. It felt like cutting thick cheese. “We riled up the drunkards and sent them running to the harbor. Along the way, other idlers will see them. No one in the harbor has anything useful to do at the moment. So this mob will head for the Sandstorm…”

Annarah laughed. “And Murat will panic and flee the city, since he’ll think they’re coming for the bounty on his head.”

“That’s the plan,” said Caina.

Morgant made a quick horizontal cut, and then ripped the dagger upward. “Or you could just burn the building down.”

Caina gave him a puzzled frown. “Why would I do that?”

The sound of people running up the stairs came through the door.

“You enjoy it,” said Morgant, making another cut. “How many buildings have you burned down? The Inferno…”

“That was the Hellfire,” said Caina.

“The Craven’s Tower…”

“Also Hellfire.”

Morgant yanked his dagger free and considered the cuts. “You deliberately set the Shahenshah’s Seat on fire.”

“I do not burn down buildings that often,” said Caina.

Annarah started to say something and stopped herself.

“I always have a good reason!” said Caina. “It…for the gods’ sake. We can argue about it on the ship. Go!”

Morgant grinned and kicked at the wall. The slab of brick fell outward, disintegrating as it did, leaving them with a short jump to the rooftop of the warehouse below. Morgant went first, helping Annarah down, and then Caina followed, her mask and shadow-cloak secured in her pack once more. Caina led the way, and they ran from rooftop to rooftop towards the harbor, jumping over the narrow alleys between the warehouses. Morgant glanced back towards the tavern, and saw the mob spilling out into the street.

Damned if it wasn’t working!

They reached the last warehouse before the docks proper, and scrambled down the wall and to the broad street before the piers. It was easy to find the Sandstorm, since Captain Murat’s ship was the only one in the harbor. Morgant spotted Murat’s crew going about their tasks on the ship, a motley mixture of Anshani and Istarish sailors, with a few Kyracians and Saddaics here and there. About half of Murat’s crew was Alqaarin, their skin far darker than the bronze shade common among the Istarish and the Anshani.

Sanjar Murat himself stood at the rail, fanning himself with his elaborate plumed hat. He was a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall, clad in black boots, black trousers, and an open red coat that displayed an expanse of muscled chest and flat stomach. His dark face was leathery, and his head had been shaved, likely to keep lice at bay, though a close-cropped black beard came to a point below his chin, framing his gleaming white teeth. A leather baldric crossed his chest, holding a row of throwing knives and a sheathed cuirass that hung from his hip. He frowned as they approached, and then a white, sardonic smile crossed his face as they ran to the end of the Sandstorm’s pier.

“Well, well, well,” said Murat in Istarish, his voice heavy with the rolling accents of the Alqaarin sultanates. “Master Ciaran, Master Markaine, and your lovely silver-haired maiden.” He vaulted over the railing and landed upon the pier with easy grace, sweeping out his hat to Annarah in an ostentatious bow. “Have you come to sell her to me?”

Annarah only smiled. “I am a married woman, sir. Such questions are inappropriate.”

Of course, her husband had been dead for a century and a half. He had burned with her children and the rest of Iramis. Annarah knew that, yet bore up under the grief remarkably well. Perhaps she kept going to fight the grief.

“Bah,” said Murat. “If your husband wishes to defend your honor, he can show up and fight for it.” He looked at Caina. “And you, Master Ciaran? I suppose Nasser has sent you to carry out his errands. Or do you wish to spend the time by throwing knives at my mast?”

“We can, if you wish,” said Caina, “but you need to set sail at once.” Once again her voice had changed, becoming harsher, gruffer, the voice of a competent mercenary.

Murat sighed. “As I explained to Nasser, we shall set sail tomorrow. I am taking on supplies and drinking water…”

“Nonsense,” said Caina. “You’re ready to go. You’re too cautious for that. You know there is a price on your head in Istarinmul, and you have your ship ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. You only wanted to stay longer to drive up Nasser’s price.”

“A slanderous accusation,” said Murat without malice. “Were you a sailor, Master Ciaran, you would recognize that a vessel has needs before she can take to the open waves once again. You are wasting your time. The Sandstorm shall sail tomorrow, and not before.”

“I didn’t come here to change your mind,” said Caina. “I came here to save your life. You know what happened in Istarinmul a few days ago?”

Murat shrugged. “The Umbarians tried to destroy the city, or so I understand.”

“They almost succeeded,” said Caina. “The people of the city are desperate and hungry…and you have a bounty of five thousand bezants upon your head. Five thousand bezants will buy a lot of food.”

Murat snorted, but Morgant saw new wariness there. “If bounty hunters come, we shall deal with them.”

“It’s not a bounty hunter,” said Caina. “It’s a mob, hundreds of them. Murat, listen. You need to set off right now. Else they will overwhelm your crew and put the Sandstorm to the torch.”

Murat blinked, off-guard. “But…what about Nasser and the others? That sullen Kyracian? Nasser booked passage for all of you.”

“Damn it!” said Caina. “I can carry out our task on Pyramid Isle alone. Either we go now, or we don’t go at all.” She stepped back. “Make up your mind. If you want to stay here, fine. We’ll go hide and watch your ship burn. Decide now.”

Murat scowled, and then the mob from the tavern started to spill onto the dockside street. The leaders pointed at the Sandstorm, and they started running towards the vessel.

“Murat!” said Caina. “We have to go!”

Caina Amalas, Morgant decided, did indeed know how to drive a hard bargain.

“The Living Flame burn it all,” spat Murat. “Karlazain!” Murat’s first mate, a villainous-looking Saddaic man in ragged clothes, straightened up. “Cast off! Get the rowers to their benches, and get the ship turned around.” He pointed at Caina. “You three, get aboard. We’re leaving. You’re still paying the full price, though.”

“Oh, yes,” said Caina in a quiet voice. “We’ll pay.”

Murat gave her an odd look, but the mob was drawing closer, and they had no choice but to board the ship.

###

A short time later Caina stood on the Sandstorm’s stern, watching Istarinmul and the Alqaarin Harbor recede into the distance as the corsair ship plunged into the Alqaarin Sea. They had been well away from the pier by the time the mob arrived, but a few of them had jumped into the water, hoping to catch the Balarigar. A few warning shots from Murat’s crossbowmen changed their minds, and the Sandstorm had gotten away clean. The Istarish galley guarding the harbor had started towards them, but Murat’s rowers had not let up, and the Istarish warship had shown no interest in pursuing them.

They had gotten away. At last Caina had a ship to take her from Istarinmul…except she had lost the relics and Kylon wasn’t with her.

It hardly counted as progress.

“I knew this was a mistake,” said Murat, stalking back and forth by his helmsman. Karlazain waited for his captain to calm down, impassive as a statue. “A damned mistake. Better to have never come to Istarinmul at all.”

“You’ll make a lot of money,” said Caina. “Both what Nasser paid you already, and what he will pay you when we return.”

“If there are mobs running loose in the city,” said Murat, “then Nasser may be killed, and I shall lose my money. Bah! I should never have returned to the city.”

For a ruthless corsair captain, Caina thought, he had a remarkable tendency to whine.

“As I see it, you’ve come out ahead,” said Caina. “We’ve already paid you. And if we’re successful and return, Nasser will pay you the rest of your fee. If he’s dead, I’ll pay you myself.”

Murat snorted. “You have that kind of money?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “Not with me, if you’re thinking about murdering us in our sleep. But I can get it once we return.”

“If,” said Murat.

“What do you mean?” said Caina, though she knew what he was driving at.

“If you are successful,” said Murat. “That is what you said. Do you expect the demons on Pyramid Isle to eat you?”

“Possibly,” said Caina. “Or you’ll steer your ship into a reef and we’ll all drown. Everyone dies, Captain.”

The corsair at the helm snorted, once.

Murat glared at him and whirled back to face Caina once more.

“How long to Pyramid Isle?” said Caina, hoping to forestall his complaints.

“Six days,” said Murat. “Maybe seven if we fail to catch the wind properly.”

“Only six?” said Caina. “It took longer from Rumarah.”

“The currents are different this far north,” said Murat. Caina nodded. Six days. Kylon and the others ought to be reaching the Kaltari Highlands by then. Assuming they had got out of Istarinmul alive before Erghulan’s army marched. In six days, she ought to catch up to Callatas on Pyramid Isle. Hopefully she could find a way to kill him before he brought his power to bear against them.

Hopefully Kylon could defeat Kalgri, once she arrived to kill Sulaman and Tanzir.

“Captain,” said one of the corsairs, pointing over the stern railing. “A storm.”

“Here?” said Murat. “There are never storms here. A dust storm, perhaps…”

“No,” said Caina, her voice quiet. “An army.”

She could still see the towers and domes of Istarinmul to the west, glittering in the sun. To the southwest a dust cloud smeared the blue sky. It was the dust raised by the army of Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku as it marched south to battle against Tanzir Shahan’s rebels.

Were Kylon and the others ahead of the army? Had they gotten out in time? Or did their corpses lie in the burning wreckage of the Imperial Embassy?

Caina didn’t know. She had no way of finding out. She might never find out.

She felt Kylon’s absence as keenly as a knife in her flesh, and closed her eyes for a long moment.

“He will be all right,” said Annarah, her voice soft.

Caina opened her eyes to see the loremaster standing next to her, Morgant waiting nearby with one eye upon the corsairs. Given that Annarah and Caina were the only women on a ship full of corsairs, that was probably a good idea. Of course, they didn’t know Caina was a woman, and she would give them no opportunity to find out.

“You’re sure of that?” said Caina.

Morgant snorted. “No.”

“Yes,” said Annarah. “Lord Kylon is a fell warrior, and he bears one of the valikons of old. If anyone can face the challenges awaiting the rebels, it is him.”

“I hope you are right,” said Caina.

Her own challenges awaited.

Grand Master Callatas himself held the fate of the world in his hands, and if Caina failed to kill him, he would hand that fate to the skeletal grasp of an ancient Great Necromancer.

Chapter 8: Rebels

It was a hot, miserable journey along the Great Southern Road, but it could have been worse.

For one, Lord Martin and Lady Claudia had been prepared. Every man and woman in the column carried enough food to last for some time, so long as it was carefully rationed, and Dromio and Tylas enforced the rationing with stern vigilance. The water supply was tighter, but there were ponds along the way where they could refill the skins, though the water had to be boiled or mixed with wine before it was drinkable. Dromio and Tylas likewise enforced water rationing, though they relented when one of the servants grew light-headed and collapsed.

Kylon did his share of the scouting. The sorcery of water gave him greater stamina than the Imperial Guards, and he employed his stamina to good effect, using it to keep himself in the saddle and alert. The scouting work was useful, letting him check the Great Southern Road ahead for any enemies, and twice he alerted Martin to bands of brigands lying in wait. The sight of charging Imperial Guards, stern in their black armor and flaring purple cloaks, was enough to send the bandits fleeing.

It also helped keep his mind off Caina.

His fear for her had a dismal familiarity to it, like a path of misery he had walked several times before. He had lost Andromache, Thalastre and his unborn child, and even his homeland itself. Yet he had never expected to see Caina after she had been banished from the Empire, and the thought of seeing her die…

But she would die eventually, would she not? If even they were victorious and settled someplace quiet and lived another fifty years, eventually they would die and lose each other. That was simply the fate of mortal men.

Yet there was a difference between a woman dying after the fullness of her years and a woman murdered untimely…

He remembered finding her in that room in Rumarah, the Red Huntress’s mocking laughter filling his ears. For a moment he wished the Huntress would show herself, and give him an outlet for his wrath and dread…

Then his mind reasserted itself, and he continued scouting.

On the fourth day from Istarinmul they found the nomad scouts.

The arid plains of the Trabazon steppes were unfit for crops, so tribes of Istarish nomads lived there, raising flocks of goats and driving them to market in Istarinmul. In their desperation to meet the Grand Master’s demand for slaves, the Slavers’ Brotherhood had started kidnapping nomads and selling them, thereby driving the nomads to ally with Tanzir Shahan.

A band of about a hundred nomad horsemen reined up before Lord Martin’s column. The nomads’ horses were skinny little things, barely more than ponies, but the beasts had a great deal of stamina. The nomads themselves wore dust-colored robes and turbans, and Caina had often disguised herself as an Istarish nomad. Every one of the nomads carried a short horse bow and several quivers of arrows. Kylon doubted the arrows would do much against the black armor of the Imperial Guards, but they could wreak terrible havoc on the servants.

Fortunately, the nomads did not seem inclined to fight.

“Do you think they’re friendly, my lord?” said Tylas, standing next to Lord Martin’s horse.

“I think so,” said Martin. “Or, at least, they’re not hostile. The steppe nomads mostly want to be left alone, but Erghulan let the Slavers’ Brotherhood prey upon them. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as the old proverb says. That, and Nasser seems to know them.”

Nasser and Laertes had ridden ahead, speaking with the leader of the nomads, an old man with a scowl and a bushy gray beard.

Tylas grunted. “Nasser seems to have friends everywhere.”

“He does,” said Kylon.

“Including the Lord Ambassador of the Empire,” said Martin with a laugh. “Well, he warned us against danger and stood with us against the Huntress at Silent Ash Temple. One cannot ask for a more loyal friend than that.”

Nasser and Laertes turned their horses and rode back to join them, followed by the old nomad. Kylon reached for the sorcery of water and extended his senses. Both Nasser and Laertes were calm, and the nomad leader was watchful, but not alarmed.

“Lord Martin,” said Nasser. “I am pleased to introduce Tibraim, the headman of this tribe.” Martin inclined his head, and Tibraim did the same. “The tribes of the steppes have joined the emir Tanzir’s army, and have been serving as scouts.”

“It is necessary,” said Tibraim, his Istarish harsher than the dialect spoken in the city. “The tribes of the steppes have been loyal subjects of the Most Divine Padishah for centuries beyond count. For too long has the Grand Wazir misruled Istarinmul, and for too long has the Grand Master twisted the emirs of Istarinmul to his will. It is time for both to be removed, and for the Padishah or one of his trueborn sons to rule in Istarinmul again.”

“Then the Living Flame smiles on you this day, headman,” said Nasser, gesturing towards Sulaman and Mazyan. “May I have the honor of presenting the prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, the last living trueborn son of the Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon.”

Tibraim sucked in a quick breath. “Is this true?”

“It is,” said Sulaman with quiet dignity. “If you doubt me, I am attended by an Oath Shadow.” Mazyan’s eyes glimmered with smokeless fire, and Tibraim flinched in his saddle. “You know that since time immemorial, only the Padishahs and their sons have been guarded by Oath Shadows.”

“Then the Living Flame has decreed this to be a well-omened day,” said Tibraim. “You have come to take what is yours, lord prince?”

“Callatas has either imprisoned or murdered my father, I know not which,” said Sulaman. “Long I have hidden from the Grand Master, and long I have sought a way to break his power. The Balarigar and the destruction of the Inferno have given the loyal men of Istarinmul their chance. Callatas seeks to destroy the world with his mad sorcery, and Erghulan is his faithful servant.” He gestured to Martin. “The Lord Ambassador of the Empire helped me escape the city, and I come to join the true emirs of Istarinmul, who seek to end the madness of Callatas and the misrule of Erghulan.”

Kylon hid a smile at that. It was a clever bit of phrasing, casting the rebel emirs as the loyal subjects of the Padishah and Erghulan and his allies as usurpers. Which, Kylon supposed, actually was the truth. But he had watched his sister outmaneuver the Assembly of New Kyre often enough to realize that in the realm of politics, truth mattered less than rhetoric.

“Then we must convey you to the emir Tanzir at once,” said Tibraim.

“Where is his army, sir?” said Nasser.

“Two days’ ride south of here along the Great Southern Road,” said Tibraim. “The host has assembled at the northern edge of the Kaltari Highlands. All the Kaltari tribes have gathered for war, along with all the emirs of the southern lands, and a great many mercenaries besides. Lord Tanzir plans to march upon Istarinmul and put the city to siege.”

“We must speak with the emir as soon as possible,” said Sulaman. “The Grand Wazir has gathered an army to make war upon him, accompanied by the Master Alchemist Rhataban.”

Tibraim hissed. “You are certain of this, my prince?”

“I saw the host with my own eyes, headman,” said Kylon. “At least fifteen thousand men, maybe as many as twenty thousand. Maybe four or five thousand Immortals as well, and siege weapons for throwing Hellfire.”

“How far away are they?” said Tibraim.

“Perhaps a day behind us,” said Martin. “Maybe a little less. We have seen their scouting parties at a distance.”

“Then we must hasten,” said Tibraim. “Lord prince, I shall convey you and your companions to the emir. I shall send men after us to scout for the Grand Wazir’s army. We must warn Lord Tanzir and his captains as soon as possible.”

“I agree,” said Sulaman. “With your permission, Lord Martin, let us follow Tibraim and his men with all speed.”

They marched onward.

The next day Kylon surrendered his horse to an aging servant and went on foot. With Tibraim’s nomads acting as outriders, there was no need for him to go scouting, though Kylon found himself wishing for a fight. It would take his mind from its dark thoughts.

A shrill cry cut into his brooding, and his head snapped around.

But it was only the baby. Lady Claudia walked a few paces away, Corvalis in her arms, her maid Kirzi following and holding her own daughter. Kylon remembered the Huntress holding the little girl, her terrified face illuminated by the harsh purple light of the sword of the nagataaru, remembered the malice and hatred and glee filling the vile spirit that possessed the Huntress…

He saw Claudia look at him with concern, and realized that he was scowling. He forced his expression to relax.

“Please forgive his crying, Lord Kylon,” said Claudia.

“What?” said Kylon. She must have thought the child’s cries had offended him. “Oh. It is all right. I was…thinking about other matters.”

“He is just hungry, I fear,” said Claudia, rocking the baby a little as she walked. “Once he’s fed, he’ll be calmer.”

“I think,” said Kylon, reaching for water sorcery and gauging the baby’s emotional aura, “I think he’s hot. Maybe if you unwrapped the extra blanket.”

“Oh!” said Claudia. “I hadn’t even thought of that.” She unwound the blanket that surrounded the baby, and Kirzi took it. Corvalis let out a few more truculent wails, gurgled a bit, and then fell silent. “My lord Kylon. I never dreamed that you knew so much about children.”

“I don’t,” said Kylon, tapping his left temple with a finger. “Water sorcery gives me an unfair advantage.”

Claudia blinked in surprise, and then laughed. “Of course. I should have realized. It is the nature of infants to be upset about something, I suppose, though it is hard to figure out what exactly vexes them.” She sighed and looked at her son. “Or maybe it is not so difficult. He’s barely a week old. He should be safe in his nursey in Istarinmul, not traveling to a battle in the midst of the plains.”

“You both should be resting,” said Kylon. “He might be a week old, but you gave birth to him a week past.”

Claudia shrugged. “It is not as if I have much choice.”

“Do not be alarmed, Lord Kyracian,” said Kirzi. She seemed in awe of Kylon after he had challenged the Huntress in the Alqaarin Bazaar, and had finally settled on “Lord Kyracian” as the appropriate honorific. “It was a good birth, especially for a first one. Lady Claudia is young and strong, and shall have many healthy children if the Living Flame wills it.”

“Let us hope the Living Flame wills it,” said Claudia. “Kirzi, could you ask Dromio to speak with me? If we’re going to reach Lord Tanzir’s host tomorrow perhaps we could increase tonight’s bread ration.”

“Of course, Lady Claudia,” said Kirzi. She bowed and walked away, still holding her daughter.

“It was fortunate we found her when we did,” said Kylon.

“It was,” said Claudia, “but she was so grateful after you and Caina challenged the Huntress that she would have done anything we asked. I suppose she and her husband are technically slaves, but since we’re about to overthrow the government of Istarinmul, that hardly matters.” She grinned. “That, and you and Caina burned all the Brotherhood’s records when you blew up their mansion.”

Kylon snorted. “That was Cassander’s fault.” His smile faded.

“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” said Claudia.

“Of course,” said Kylon. “If she convinced Murat to sail, they should be nearing Pyramid Isle by now. They might even arrive before Callatas and lay an ambush for him.”

If Caina had gotten out of Istarinmul alive.

“I’m not sure which is worse,” said Claudia. “Facing danger at Martin’s side, or waiting for him to return, knowing that he is in peril and there is nothing I can do to help him.”

“Both,” said Kylon. “I think both are worse.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Claudia. She hesitated. “I used to be terrified of her, you know.”

“Caina?” said Kylon. Claudia nodded. “Why?”

“You know how much she hated sorcerers,” said Claudia. “The only reason she tolerated me was because she was in love with my brother. I knew that if she ever wanted to kill me, she would find a way to do it.” She took a deep breath. “Then I blamed her for Corvalis’s death. Foolish, I know…”

“But you were in mourning,” said Kylon. He knew all about mourning. Andromache’s death had been her own doing, and as much as Kylon had wanted to blame Caina at the time, he had been unable to do so. After Thalastre died, he had blamed himself…but he had also blamed the architects of her death, Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas and the Red Huntress. Rolukhan and Cassander were dead at Kylon’s hand, but the Huntress was still out there.

Perhaps she was following them even now.

“Caina and I been through too much together,” said Claudia. “You were there for some of it. We’ve seen each other at our lowest points.” She shrugged. “And now I trust her completely…”

“So you’re friends now,” said Kylon.

“She’s like my sister,” said Claudia. “My bossy, opinionated, too-clever sister.”

Kylon laughed. “High praise indeed.”

“She’ll come back, Kylon,” said Claudia. “If anyone can come back, she can. I was more afraid of Ranarius than anyone else in the world, and she beat him three times. She faced down a Great Necromancer and the Moroaica herself. If anyone can stop Callatas, she can.”

“I know,” said Kylon. “Thank you.”

But the fear would not leave him.

“A question, if I may,” said Kylon, trying to distract himself.

“Of course,” said Claudia.

“This Master Alchemist Rhataban who is marching with the enemy,” said Kylon. “Do you know him? Tibraim seemed more concerned about him than Grand Wazir Erghulan.”

“I’ve never met him,” said Claudia, “but I’ve heard of him. He has…something of a reputation. He likes to fight.”

“So?” said Kylon.

“The Alchemists generally avoid fighting,” said Claudia. “There’s spells aren’t suited for battle, not the way that yours and mine are. The Magisterium has the battle magi and the Kyracians have the stormdancers, but there is no similar tradition of war sorcerers among the College of Alchemists. They make weapons for others to use. I understand that was their function in the Kingdom of the Rising Sun before the Moroaica destroyed it.”

Kylon nodded. “Like Hellfire.”

“Rhataban, though, is different,” said Claudia. “From what I have heard, he has found ways to use alchemical spells to make himself stronger and faster, and he leads from the front. He’s good at it, too. The only battles the Istarish won against the Empire during the war were battles where Rhataban commanded. Apparently right after the war one of the Alqaarin sultanates – Al-Mhurqat, I think – sent a force to see if Istarinmul was weakened. Of course, the sultan of Al-Mhurqat knew nothing of it.”

“Of course,” said Kylon in a dry voice.

“Rhataban destroyed the force utterly,” said Claudia. “No one made it back alive to Al-Mhurqat. I do know Rhataban’s a supporter of Callatas. He’s has been in Istarish Cyrica for the last year, which is probably why Istarish Cyrica hasn’t joined the rebellion against Erghulan.” Claudia shrugged with one shoulder, Corvalis cradled in her other arm. “If the rumors are true, he will probably be a more dangerous opponent than Erghulan himself.”

Kylon glanced to the north, where the Grand Wazir’s army continued its southward march.

“It seems,” said Kylon, “that we are going to find out.”

###

Six days after leaving Istarinmul, they reached the rebel army of Tanzir Shahan.

The host camped at the very edge of the Kaltari Highlands, the rocky hills rising to the south. The Highlands were hardly lush, but they were cooler than the steppes, and Kylon thought that a welcome relief.

The army sprawled at the foot of the hills, nearly twenty thousand strong. Kylon spotted the banners of the House of Shahan, adorned with the sigil of seven towers arrayed in a ring. There were nearly thirty other banners flying over the camp, bearing the sigils of other noble Houses. Tanzir’s rebellion had drawn more support from the nobles than Kylon would have thought, likely because Callatas and Erghulan had a gift for making enemies. Most of the camp housed Kaltari warriors from the Highlands, the tents adorned with the skulls of defeated enemies that the Kaltari kept as ancestral heirlooms. That was also a good sign. The Kaltari had traditionally provided the backbone of the Padishah’s infantry, and nearly all of the Kaltari tribes had thrown their support behind Tanzir.

“Tibraim, you nomad dog!” said one of the Kaltari warriors guarding the camp, though he grinned. “You’ve found a mob of foreigners!”

“Aye,” said Tibraim. “I’ve news that the emir and his captains must hear at once.” He glanced at Martin’s servants. “Some of these men need rest and water.”

“The quartermaster’s tent is there,” said the Kaltari guard. “Lord Tanzir is on the hill by his personal banner. What news do you have?”

“You’ll hear it soon enough,” said Tibraim, his voice grim.

“Dromio,” said Martin. “Take charge here. Make sure everyone gets fed and watered. Tylas, with me.”

Nasser, Laertes, Claudia, Martin, Tylas, Sulaman, and Mazyan dismounted, and Kylon followed suit. Dromio took charge of the horses, the Imperial Guards and the servants heading towards the quartermaster’s tent. Tibraim led the way through the camp, and Kylon and the others followed.

Tanzir’s personal banner flew from a low hill overlooking the camp, and Kylon saw a small group of nobles meeting there. To judge from their emotional aura, they were in the midst of an argument. As they drew closer, Kylon recognized many of the army’s leaders. Tanzir Shahan himself looked like a plumper and shorter version of his late brother Rezir, though he seemed harder and more confident than Kylon remembered. The Kaltari headman Strabane was a towering giant of a man, scarred and scowling, three skulls hanging from a leather cord on his belt. Kylon also recognized the mercenary captains Dio and Shopur, leaders of the Black Wolves and the Company of Shopur, and the exiled Anshani anjar Kazravid in his robes of red and black. All three mercenaries had aided Nasser and Caina in some of their more daring enterprises.

The argument fell silent as Kylon and the others approached.

“Tibraim!” said Tanzir Shahan, stepping forward. The emir wore armor of the finest quality, a scimitar waiting at his belt. “What news?” His dark eyes swept over them, widening when he recognized Kylon and Nasser. “It seems you have brought us illustrious guests.”

“More illustrious than you know, lord emir,” said Tibraim. “I present Lord Martin Dorius, Lord Ambassador of the Emperor of Nighmar, and his wife Lady Claudia. I also have the great honor to present Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, the last son of the Padishah…and perhaps the rightful Padishah even now.”

Stunned silence fell over the nobles. A few of them went to their knees.

“Then it is time?” said Tanzir at last.

“My friend,” said Sulaman. “Secrecy will avail us no longer. Callatas is ready to work the Apotheosis, and the Grand Wazir marches at the head of an army to crush us. We must fight, both to save our homeland and the world itself.”

Tanzir took a deep breath, his emotional sense bracing itself. “Then let us begin.”

###

As Tanzir, Sulaman, Nasser, Martin, and the Istarish nobles discussed what to do, Strabane drew Kylon off to the side.

“They’ll talk for some time yet,” said Strabane. “Figured you could use a drink.”

“You are indeed a generous man,” said Kylon as the Kaltari headman passed him a clay mug filled with beer. He thought the Kaltari beer only indifferent, but after six days crossing the Trabazon steppes, he would not complain. “Thank you.”

Strabane snorted. “You saved my life from those devil-worshippers at Shaman Hill. You can drink my beer and feast on my bread whenever you wish. Besides, we were both gladiators. Those of us who have survived the fighting rings of Istarinmul have to stick together.”

“Truly,” agreed Kylon, taking another drink.

“Ah, Lord Exile.” Kazravid joined them. “Strabane, you surprise me. You are sharing your beer?”

“With him,” said Strabane. “You can pay for yours like everyone else.”

“Savage,” said Kazravid without rancor. His black beard and hair were oiled in the Anshani fashion, his patterned robes of red and black pristine, but Kylon had seen firsthand just how skilled the exiled Anshani anjar was with his bow. “Well, we have risen up a bit in the world, haven’t we? If Tanzir succeeds and puts his new Padishah upon the throne, perhaps I’ll be made a hakim or even a wazir.”

“So long as he does not put you in charge of the treasury,” said Strabane. “You’d steal it all.”

“I would steal a reasonable amount,” said Kazravid. “Lord Exile, I wish to ask a question.”

Kylon nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Master Ciaran,” said Kazravid. “He is truly a woman?”

Strabane snorted, and Kylon almost smiled.

“Truly,” said Kylon.

“Strabane insisted,” said Kazravid, “but I didn’t believe him. I saw Ciaran with stubble. Is she a bearded woman?”

“No. It was makeup,” said Kylon. “She has a gift for disguise.”

“She must,” said Kazravid, shaking his head with bewilderment. “To think I offered to buy Ciaran a whore! No wonder he…well, she never seemed interested. By the Living Flame! My head spins with it.”

“Surprised me how pretty she was,” said Strabane, “once she’s wearing proper women’s clothing.”

Kazravid snorted. “I doubt that. She is probably some terrifying frigid harridan, or a termagant with…”

“Careful,” said Strabane. “She’s also the Exile’s woman.”

Kazravid blinked several times.

“I see,” said Kazravid. “Do forgive my hasty words.”

Kylon inclined his head.

“But I will say this,” said Kazravid. “I’ve seen the kinds of plans she spins, and you are a braver man than I, sir.”

Kylon wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but a call from Nasser saved him from the need to answer.

“Lord Kylon!” said Nasser. “A moment of your time, please.”

Kylon finished the cup of beer and walked back up the slope of the hill to the nobles. They had gathered around a long wooden table holding maps of the Highlands and the steppes. Tanzir stood at their head, his hands resting on the table. He might never have led men in battle before, but he was taking to the role well.

“Lord Kylon,” said Tanzir. “We have a problem, and I hope you can help with it.”

“If I can,” said Kylon.

“The army must march today,” said Tanzir. “It would be best to fight Erghulan upon the steppes. That will give both the nomads and our heavy cavalry room to maneuver. However, I would have preferred to remain here until one more person joined our host.”

“Who?” said Kylon.

“The Emissary of the Living Flame,” said Tanzir.

Caina had told Kylon about the Emissary. She dwelled in Silent Ash Temple in the southern Kaltari Highlands, attended by an order of monks. The followers of the Living Flame were a fractious lot, divided into different sects, but almost all the sects agreed that the Emissary was truly a messenger of the Living Flame. Caina had said that she possessed the sorcerous power of foretelling, and that anyone could ask a question of her and receive a true answer. She had also given Caina the valikon that Kylon now carried, appointing her the weapon’s custodian.

“You sought her out?” said Kylon.

“She contacted us,” said Tanzir, “and announced that she would join us as we put a new Padishah upon the throne.” He looked at Sulaman. “Evidently she foresaw your coming.” His gaze swung back to Kylon. “The Emissary is held in great fear and esteem by the people of Istarinmul, much as I imagine the Surge is respected among the Kyracian people.”

“Yes,” said Kylon, the old anger echoing inside of him. The Surge had warned him about the nagataaru…but she had failed to warn him about the Huntress. She could have warned him about the Huntress, but she had not. Perhaps she had withheld the truth for her own inscrutable purposes.

He wondered if the Emissary was a woman of similar character as the Surge.

“She will arrive any day, and we planned to march as soon as she did,” said Tanzir. “However, we must depart …”

“So you would like me to find the Emissary and bring her here,” said Kylon.

“There is more, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser. “Some of Tibraim’s scouts spotted a band of horsemen heading into the Kaltari Highlands. We suspect that either Erghulan or Rhataban has realized the danger and sent men to kidnap or kill the Emissary of the Living Flame.”

“If they do, they will inflict grave damage to our cause,” said Tanzir. “If Erghulan takes the Emissary captive, he can claim that she has thrown her support to him. Worse, if he kills her, he can cast the blame upon us. Either outcome would be disastrous. Most of our men are followers of the Living Flame and hold the Emissary in reverence. Some of them have even made the pilgrimage to Silent Ash Temple to speak with her. We cannot let her fall into the hands of the enemy…”

“And this is exactly,” said Kylon, “the kind of task Callatas would send the Huntress to perform.”

It made a great deal of grim sense. The Red Huntress had threatened to kill everyone at Silent Ash Temple during her confrontation with Caina. Kylon knew the spiteful creature would kill the Emissary and her monks if the opportunity presented itself.

“Lord Kylon,” said Sulaman, “we have no right to command you. But if the Red Huntress comes for the Emissary, you are the man best equipped to fight her. Will you do this?”

His hand hitched to grasp the valikon’s hilt.

“Yes,” said Kylon.

Chapter 9: Relics of Maat

Sanjar Murat’s prediction proved correct.

The Sandstorm made good time, the prow slicing through the waves in a spray of white foam. The weather was bright and clear and windy, and the sails billowed. Between the current and the wind, the ship made good time, and Murat revised his estimate, saying they might arrive at Pyramid Isle a day sooner than he expected.

That was the first good news Caina had heard in a while. Their best chance of stopping Callatas was to ambush him and kill him before he noticed their presence. If they could reach the island before the galley and lie in wait, they had a better chance of arranging a successful ambush.

Come to think of it, an ambush was their only chance of overcoming him.

“The beach,” said Caina on the morning of the fourth day.

She, Annarah, and Morgant stood on the bow, leaning against the railing. At Caina’s instance, they always stayed within earshot of each other. She did not think Murat planned treachery. He had kept his word to Nasser during their previous journey to Pyramid Isle, and he had not betrayed them since. Nevertheless, Caina thought Murat had a great deal in common with a shark. If he smelled opportunity, he would attack.

Best not to give him that opportunity, then.

“What about the beach?” said Annarah.

“We will have to kill Callatas on the beach,” said Caina. “Before he can enter the jungle.”

“More cover in the jungle,” said Morgant. His manner was crisp, with much of his usual rambling rudeness absent. Caina wasn’t surprised. They were discussing his business, and his business was killing.

And Morgant the Razor was very good at it.

Caina shook her head. “If he goes into the jungle, he’ll be within the power of Kharnaces. You remember all those warding stones circling the jungle? The ancient Iramisians raised the stones to keep Kharnaces bound within his tomb after the rest of the Great Necromancers imprisoned him on the island.”

“The warding spells have decayed,” said Annarah. “Once the loremasters used to visit the island to renew the spells, but Iramis burned a century and a half ago. I suspect that Kharnaces has been attacking the spells, seeking to break them.”

“He hasn’t broken them yet,” said Morgant.

“How can you be sure?” said Annarah.

“Because he hasn’t come to get Callatas,” said Morgant. “Otherwise Kharnaces wouldn’t need to bother bringing Callatas to him. Then Kharnaces would be free to leave the island, and I think we would notice if a Great Necromancer arrived in Istarinmul.”

“Not necessarily,” said Caina. “The first time I encountered a Great Necromancer, he disguised himself as a living man.”

Morgant waved his hand. “My point is that Kharnaces can’t leave Pyramid Isle. Else he would just stroll up to Callatas with a needle, a straw, and a bottle, and take all the blood he needs.”

“So it would be best to kill Callatas on the beach,” said Caina. “Before he enters the jungle. If we do, we won’t have to deal with Kharnaces. He never gets Callatas’s blood, and therefore cannot finish the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.”

It sounded so neat, so simple…and so unlikely.

Morgant spotted the plan’s flaws at once. “There wasn’t much cover on the beach. We can’t fight Callatas, because if we try to fight him, he’ll just wave his hand and kill us all. We have to ambush him, and we have to kill him quickly. Maybe it’s best to wait until he’s distracted.”

“When will he be distracted?” said Caina.

Morgant grinned. “When he and Kharnaces are fighting each other to the death.”

“Kharnaces has him under a compulsion,” said Caina. “He’ll bring the Staff and the Seal to Kharnaces.”

“And then Kharnaces will then try to kill him,” said Morgant. “Which will give Callatas an excellent reason to fight off the compulsion.”

Annarah frowned. “Do you think he could fight it off?”

“Why not?” said Morgant, pointing at Caina. “She did, didn’t she? Remember how she kept saying that she had to give the Staff and the Seal to Callatas? Kharnaces put that compulsion on her. Callatas is far more powerful than any of us. You think he won’t fight if his life is in danger?”

Caina frowned. “Kharnaces is more powerful than Callatas.”

“Oh, probably,” said Morgant, “but maybe he underestimated Callatas. If Kharnaces really is twenty-five centuries old, he’s probably gotten a bit set in his ways, you know? A bit rigid in his thinking. That, and Grand Master’s had a century and a half to practice his spells. Kharnaces might bite off more than he can chew. He’ll likely beat Callatas in the end, but the fight between them will burn the jungle to ashes before it’s over.”

“What are you saying?” said Annarah.

“Easy,” said Morgant. “We wait until Callatas and Kharnaces fight, and then we stab Callatas in the back.”

“That might work,” said Caina. Callatas would need his full attention to fight Kharnaces. In such a moment of distraction, it might be possible to slip past his guard and strike.

“But if we kill Callatas in the jungle,” said Annarah, “then Kharnaces can still take the blood from his corpse.”

“That depends,” said Morgant. “Does Callatas need to be alive for his blood to complete the Conjurant Bloodcrystal?”

“I…don’t know,” said Caina, wondering.

“Would it really make a difference?” said Annarah.

“It might,” said Caina. “Every kind of bloodcrystal is grown from a base, the blood of an initial victim. And if the base is still alive, he can resist the effects of the bloodcrystal. I’ve seen that firsthand.”

Annarah frowned. “Where?”

“A long time ago,” said Caina. “When I first joined the Ghosts.” Her hand wanted to stray to her stomach, and she stopped herself. “There was a necromancer named Maglarion, one of the Moroaica’s former students. He took my blood and used it as the base to grow a colossal reservoir bloodcrystal, and then used the bloodcrystal to create a deadly poison. With the poison, he planned to kill everyone in Malarae, store their life energies in the reservoir bloodcrystal, and employ the power to become a god.”

“Presumably he failed,” said Morgant, “since Malarae is still alive and the remnants of the Empire are not ruled by a living necromancer-god.”

“He made a mistake,” said Caina. “He didn’t fully understand what he was doing. He tried to kill me with the poison, but I was immune to it. Since my blood served as the base for his reservoir bloodcrystal, I was immune to its effects.”

To her surprise, Morgant let out a pleased laugh. “So you played dead and then stabbed him in the back?”

“Something like that, yes,” said Caina.

Morgant laughed again. “Clever. I approve. I imagine his expression in the final moment must have been…surprised.”

Caina remembered Maglarion’s scream as he fell from the tower of Haeron Icaraeus’s mansion, remembered the cold satisfaction she had felt at seeing the corpse of the man who had destroyed her life.

“It was,” said Caina, her voice soft.

She also remembered the emptiness that had filled her after. Vengeance was a fine thing, and Maglarion had deserved his fate a thousand times over. Yet vengeance could not serve as the sole purpose of her life. It had taken Caina years to understand, but one could not live solely on rage. Not forever.

On the day Caina had killed Maglarion, if someone had told her that one day she would take a Kyracian stormdancer, a sorcerer, as a lover, she would have been horrified and furious. Now she missed Kylon with an intensity that felt like a splinter sinking into her heart.

“Anyway,” said Caina, pushing the tangle of memory and emotion out of her head, “I don’t know if Callatas needs to be alive for his blood to work. But we had best not take the risk. We should try to kill Callatas on the beach. If that doesn’t work, we’ll use Morgant’s plan as a backup.”

“This seems reasonable to me,” said Annarah.

“We shall likely have to improvise,” said Morgant.

Caina shrugged. “Don’t we always?”

They stood in silence for a while.

“May I ask you something?” said Annarah.

“Of course,” said Caina.

“You do not have to answer, if you do not wish,” said Annarah.

“No, go ahead,” said Caina. “We have been through so much together that we may as well be honest.”

Annarah hesitated. “Maglarion. The necromancer you mentioned.” Caina nodded. “He was the one who gave you that scar, was he not? The one that left you unable to conceive a child.”

“He was,” said Caina. She gripped the rail. “I was eleven. My mother was a failed initiate of the Magisterium, so she looked elsewhere for lessons. Maglarion could teach her. He also needed the blood of a virgin to serve as the base of his bloodcrystal. The bargain was struck.”

“That is dreadful,” said Annarah. “I am sorry.”

“I hated my mother,” said Caina. “When I was a girl, what I wanted most was my own children.” She let out a long breath. “Because then I could be a better mother to them than she ever was to me. Of course, she made sure I would never have any children.”

That thought would have pleased her mother. Even Callatas could have learned lessons in spite from Laeria Amalas.

“Children are overrated,” said Morgant. “The screaming and the vomiting and the endless whining ingratitude, and you’re responsible for another mouth to feed. One too useless to do any useful work, too.”

“As if you would know,” said Caina.

“And you would?” said Morgant.

She felt the sudden urge to hit him again, but starting a fight in front of Murat’s crew was a bad idea. That, and this was Morgant’s usual game of probing her weak spots with insults, testing how she would react.

“You’re not wrong, Morgant,” said Annarah, “but neither are you correct.”

Morgant snorted. “How enigmatic. Did the loremasters teach you to speak in riddles?”

She smiled. “They did, but that’s not the point. All that you say of children is true. It is work without end. When my first son was born I do not think I slept the night for three or four months, and after he learned to walk he was so disobedient I wanted to scream.” She spread her hands. “Yet I did it all willingly. I loved my children. I would have done anything for them. I would have done terrible things for their sake, and told the most appalling lies for years to save them. Compared to all that, what is caring for them?”

“I’m sorry,” said Caina. “I will never have children, but you had them and lost them. Surely that must be worse.”

“Perhaps,” said Annarah, “but I would rather have had them and lost them. To never have had them would be worse, I think.” She closed her eyes and sighed, opening them again a moment later. “It is only love that makes such things bearable.”

“Love, like children, is overrated,” said Morgant.

“Another topic on which your lack of expertise is remarkable,” said Caina.

“It is simply another word,” said Morgant. “I knew a man who claimed he loved his wife, yet took a new mistress in secret every few months and never told her. Or a mother who claimed she loved her children, but ate their bread and let them starve. Men are wolves, and love is simply a rationalization for what we wished to do anyway.”

“No,” said Caina. “You’re wrong.”

“How?” said Morgant.

“If love is a rationalization for what I wanted to do anyway,” said Caina, “then I wouldn’t be here. I would be with Kylon right now. Not chasing after Callatas.”

“Bah,” said Morgant. “Well, children are entitled to their dreams, I suppose.”

He strolled a few paces away, clearly exasperated with the topic.

“He is not,” said Annarah, “as cynical as he claims.”

“Oh, I know,” said Caina.

Annarah blinked. “How?”

“Because otherwise he wouldn’t be chasing after Callatas with us,” said Caina. Annarah laughed. “Though he is nearly almost as cynical as he claims.”

“I cannot contest that,” said Annarah. She hesitated. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but…you have done great things. I would never have escaped the Inferno if not for you. Cassander would have slaughtered everyone in Istarinmul. I have heard Lord Kylon and Lady Claudia speak in passing of other things you have done, the lives you have saved. I wish for your sake that this Maglarion had not set you upon your path, but if you had not become what you are, if you had not become the Balarigar, the world would be a far darker place.”

“There’s no such thing as the Balarigar,” said Caina. “The Szaldic slaves in Marsis called me that, and I threw it in Ulvan’s face before I dumped him off his balcony. The whole damned legend grew out of that.”

“Nevertheless,” said Annarah. “People only believe the legend of the Balarigar because of what you have done.”

“If you say so. Thank you,” said Caina.

They lapsed into silence, watching the Sandstorm cut its way through the waves. Caina wondered what it would have been like to have a child, to carry Kylon’s child within her.

She would never know.

At the moment, she would settle for simply seeing Kylon alive again.

###

That night Caina lay in her bunk and dreamed.

It was a dream she had experienced before.

The knocking thundered through her head.

Caina turned, skirt swirling around her ankles.

She stood in the House of Kularus, the coffee house she had owned in the Imperial capital of Malarae. Tables and chairs stood scattered around the main floor, while five levels of balconies climbed the walls, offering booths where patrons could converse in private. The air smelled of roasting coffee and baking bread. Of course, since this was not the real House of Kularus and her dream, bookshelves lined the walls, holding the books from her father’s library that Maglarion’s men had burned so long ago.

This place somehow represented her mind. After she had become a valikarion, spirits could no longer access her sleeping mind. Given how often that had happened in the past, it was something of a relief. Yet sometimes spirits still wished to speak with her, but they needed an invitation to enter.

Hence the knocking.

Caina crossed the floor, her high-heeled boots clicking against the polished marble, and looked down at herself. She wore the blue gown with black trim that she had worn on the day she had spoken with Kylon in Catekharon, low-cut and close-fitting, jewels glinting upon her fingers and in her ears. She wasn’t sure why she always wore this dress in these dreams, and knew that with an effort of will she could have changed her appearance.

But there was no reason. She liked this dress.

Caina reached the double doors and pulled them open.

Outside she should have seen the Imperial Market, the richest and most prestigious market in Malarae and possible the Empire. Instead she saw the bleak, dead plain of the Desert of Candles, the low wind moaning past the blue-glowing crystalline pillars that gave the desert its name. In the distance she saw the dry fountain of white stone with its crystalline statues – the mortal remains of Nasser’s wife and children. They had died long ago, but Nasser lingered on, his crystalline hand keeping him from dying.

Samnirdamnus, djinni of the Court of the Azure Sovereign and the Knight of Wind and Air, stood outside the doors.

As he often did, the spirit wore the form of the Emperor Alexius Naerius, a thin, white-bearded old man in a black robe of office. His eyes burned with the smokeless flame of the djinn, and a sardonic smile played on his bearded lips. The Emperor had never smirked like that.

“Samnirdamnus,” said Caina.

“My darling demonslayer,” said Samnirdamnus. “I do hope you can spare a moment to chat with me. Quality conversation is such a rarity in this barren age.”

Caina stared at him. She still did not know quite what to make of the spirit. Certainly Samnirdamnus was not her enemy. He had gone to great lengths to manipulate Caina and Morgant and Kylon so Kylon would have a chance to save Caina’s life at Rumarah. Samnirdamnus had appeared in Caina’s dreams during her first night in Istarinmul, and he had given her cryptic advice ever since. At first Caina thought he was plotting to free himself from Callatas, to escape from the binding that compelled him to watch over the Maze. That was part of it, surely, but she had also learned that the djinn of the Court of the Azure Sovereign were the ancient enemies of the nagataaru, and that Samnirdamnus’s title of the Knight of Wind and Air meant he was something like a spy or a shadow agent for the Azure Sovereign.

Which meant his aid to Caina was part of a larger plan.

“Have you decided,” said Caina, “if I am the one you have been looking for?”

“Almost,” said Samnirdamnus. “I will know very soon.”

“What do you want to talk about, then?” said Caina.

“Why,” said Samnirdamnus, “interesting things.”

She stared at him for another moment, and then nodded. “All right. Come inside and we’ll talk.”

Caina turned and walked to a nearby table, Samnirdamnus following her. A pitcher of coffee and a pair of cups appeared on the table. As Samnirdamnus seated himself, Caina poured the coffee and passed him one of the cups.

“You know those are imaginary,” said Caina, sitting down and taking a sip. It tasted exactly like the coffee Damla served at the House of Agabyzus.

“Just because something is imaginary,” said Samnirdamnus, “does not mean it is not real.”

“I believe that is the definition of unreal,” said Caina.

Imaginary or not, she took another sip of the coffee.

“You asked,” said Samnirdamnus, “if you are the one I have been looking for. I am almost certain that you are. You see, I have been looking for you, or for someone like you, for a very long time now. And the moment is almost at hand.”

“What moment?” said Caina.

“The moment of final crisis,” said Samnirdamnus. “When all of Callatas’s plans come to fruition and this world dies, or he is stopped and this world lives. One or the other. If the world is indeed a tapestry of destiny threads, then every thread is warping itself around the decisions that you, Callatas, and a few others shall make in the immediate future.”

“I see,” said Caina, chilled despite the warmth of the coffee. She knew she played a game with deadly stakes…and it seemed the end of the game was at hand.

One way or another.

“I shall know if you are the one I have been looking for,” said Samnirdamnus, “if you survive the coming conflict.”

“What conflict is that?” said Caina.

“The conflict between the lords of the nagataaru,” said Samnirdamnus.

“I don’t understand,” said Caina. “The nagataaru are fighting amongst themselves?”

“Constantly,” said Samnirdamnus, glancing towards the ceiling. “It’s rather like watching a bucket of serpents. But how to explain in terms you understand? The sovereign of the nagataaru, the creature you know as Kotuluk Iblis…”

“We’ve met,” said Caina. Kotuluk Iblis had prophesied her certain doom. The prophecy had come true in Rumarah, though Kylon had cheated fate and saved her.

“Indeed,” said Samnirdamnus with sardonic amusement. “Kotuluk Iblis cares nothing for methods, only results. When he desires to accomplish something, he gives the task to several of the great lords of the nagataaru. They all loathe each other, of course, and scramble to fulfill their sovereign’s bidding. Sometimes they are at odds with each other, for they know that their sovereign gives great rewards to the successful.”

“Fine,” said Caina. “What does this have to do with Callatas?”

“The nagataaru inhabiting the Great Necromancer,” said Samnirdamnus. “Do you chance to recall its name?”

“The nagataaru don’t have names as mortals do,” said Caina, “but Kharnaces called it the Harbinger.”

“The Harbinger is one such lord of the nagataaru,” said Samnirdamnus. “The nagataaru known to you as the Voice is another.”

Caina shuddered a little. “Kalgri’s nagataaru.”

“Precisely,” said Samnirdamnus. “Kotuluk Iblis has had his eye upon this world for a very long time. He set his vassals to the task of finding a way for the nagataaru to devour this world. The Harbinger and the Voice proposed different plans, and the Harbinger’s plan gained the favor of Kotuluk Iblis.”

“Hence Kharnaces,” said Caina.

“The Harbinger entered his flesh and planned to use him as an instrument to open the way for the nagataaru,” said Samnirdamnus.

“Except the plan didn’t work, did it?” said Caina. “Kharnaces was imprisoned on Pyramid Isle.”

“And for such a long time, too,” said Samnirdamnus. “The Voice was subtler. It recognized that so long as Iramis stood, the loremasters and the valikarion would stop any attempt to enter your world. So the Voice and Kotuluk Iblis found different tools to carry out their plans.”

“Kalgri and Callatas,” said Caina. “Does that mean Kotuluk Iblis himself has possessed Callatas?”

“In a sense,” said Samnirdamnus. “No mortal vessel could contain the power of Kotuluk Iblis. Rather his shadow filled Callatas, and provides him with considerable power. The Voice inhabits the Huntress, and uses her to dispose of obstacles to its plan. It is quite vexed with you, as I understand.”

“Good,” said Caina. “So…what’s happening now…”

“Is the final resolution of the conflict between the Voice and the Harbinger,” said Samnirdamnus. “If Kharnaces is successful, he will fulfill the Harbinger’s plan to dissolve the barrier separating your world from the netherworld, and the nagataaru shall devour your world. If the Voice is successful, Callatas will return to Istarinmul and work the Apotheosis, summoning tens of thousands of nagataaru to inhabit the wraithblood addicts. The nagataaru-possessed mortals shall rampage and slaughter, and the nagataaru will devour this world. Either way, the nagataaru will devour the world. The Harbinger’s plan is quicker, the Voice’s slower. Yet the nagataaru are eternal, and a few years mean nothing to them.”

“No,” said Caina.

“You disagree?” said Samnirdamnus.

“No,” said Caina. “Neither plan will succeed. We will kill Callatas, retrieve the relics, and stop Kharnaces from taking Callatas’s blood.” A hard anger blazed in her. If the nagataaru thought to devour the world like a farmer slaughtering his cattle, they would learn otherwise.

“Ah,” said Samnirdamnus. “The wrath of the Balarigar, lit anew. It is such a remarkable sight. That wrath has changed the course of the world more than once.” He looked at the ceiling again. “Our time grows short. Before I depart, permit me one word of advice.”

“Just one?” said Caina. “Have you learned brevity at last?”

Samnirdamnus laughed. “Trophies.”

“Trophies?” said Caina.

“Consider the trophies of the Great Necromancer,” said Samnirdamnus.

“I don’t understand,” said Caina.

“A weakness of Kharnaces,” said Samnirdamnus. “He liked the collect trophies. You recall that the Inferno was once his stronghold? You walked through his hall of trophies, the relics he had collected from his defeated foes.”

“The wedjet-dahn,” said Caina.

“One such relic saved your life,” said Samnirdamnus. “Perhaps you ought to consider his other trophies.” He glanced at the ceiling again. “Do sleep well, my darling demonslayer. I very strongly suspect we shall meet again soon.”

The dream dissolved into nothingness.

###

Caina blinked awake in the darkness of the cramped cabin. Faint starlight leaked through the shuttered porthole, and she heard the gentle snoring of Annarah in the other bunk.

An alarming thought occurred to Caina.

Had she made a fatal mistake?

She had assumed that Callatas would send Kalgri after Sulaman and Tanzir. But what if Caina had been wrong? What if the Voice influenced Kalgri to accompany him to Pyramid Isle, to help Callatas fight against Kharnaces and the Harbinger?

If Kalgri was on Pyramid Isle, then Caina had no valikon to use against her.

Chapter 10: The Master Alchemist

Kylon rode with Strabane and forty Kaltari warriors, heading deep into the rugged hills of the Kaltari Highlands.

The Kaltari warriors were displeased about having to ride, but Strabane insisted. The raiders Erghulan and Rhataban had sent into the Highlands were mounted, and even in the hilly terrain, horses made better time than men. The Kaltari preferred to fight on their own feet, and would dismount to fight any foes.

“We’ll cut through the valley,” said Strabane, gesturing at the rocky hills and their patchy coats of short pine trees. “The Emissary will come down the main road that passes near Drynemet. She ought to be no more than a day to the south. If we ride fast enough, we ought to intercept her before any troublemakers find her.”

“Or,” said Kylon, “we’ll find the troublemakers before they find her.”

Strabane grunted. “All the better. Saves us the bother of having to kill the bastards later. Ride!”

His men, despite their obvious lack of enthusiasm for their borrowed mounts, obeyed. They rode for the rest of the day, until the sun finally vanished over the hills to the west and it was too dark to see. Kylon slept until Strabane roused the company before dawn, and they returned to their saddles as the sky brightened to the east.

“The Emissary,” said Kylon, riding alongside Strabane. “Does she truly wield such influence?”

“Aye,” said Strabane. “I suppose you don’t worship the Living Flame.”

“No,” said Kylon. “The gods of storm and sea, the ancient gods of the Kyracian people.”

Strabane grunted. “I reckon that’s proper. A man ought to follow the gods of his people. Though we Kaltari abandoned our old gods for the Living Flame, so I can’t lecture. But the Emissary has great influence. She rarely intervenes in politics or other practical matters, not unless she’s invited, but when she does, people listen. For her to leave Silent Ash Temple is…”

“Unprecedented,” said Kylon.

“That’s a good word,” said Strabane. “We live in unprecedented times.” He glanced at Kylon. “You think this is a waste of effort?”

Kylon shrugged. “To be blunt, I’m surprised you came yourself. I didn’t think you a pious man. But if the Emissary wields as much influence as you say, then it is worth the effort.”

“Do the Kyracians have an oracle like the Emissary?” said Strabane. “Lord Tanzir mentioned something about a Flood or a Flow or something…”

“The Surge,” said Kylon. “The oracle of the Kyracian people. She sees the storm of the world, and issues prophecies and decrees, much like the Emissary.”

Strabane grunted. “Seems like you’ve got a grudge against her.”

Kylon said nothing, thinking of the warning the Surge had given him about the nagataaru. The Surge had given him the warning, and the ability to sense the nagataaru…but she had not warned him about the Huntress. She had given him no warning that a nightmare like the Red Huntress was about to descend upon the Tower of Kardamnos.

“I might,” said Kylon.

“Well, don’t piss off the Emissary,” said Strabane. “We need her. If she tells the army that Sulaman isn’t the rightful Padishah or that we’re doomed to defeat, they’ll believe her.”

“I shall hold my tongue,” said Kylon.

“Pity your woman isn’t here,” said Strabane. “She’d think up something clever. She got us out of old Callatas’s damned Maze, and shot the Huntress off the side of Silent Ash Temple.” He snorted. “Never thought I would want the help of a woman in battle…but like you said, these are unprecedented times.”

“Aye,” said Kylon, thinking of Caina. It had been seven days since they had left Istarinmul. She might have reached Pyramid Isle by now. She might have confronted Callatas by now.

Callatas might have killed her.

“Aye,” said Kylon again, and they lapsed into silence after that.

By mid-morning they reached the main road.

Admittedly, it was not much of a road. The Great Southern Road made its way southeast around the rocky Highlands, so the main road through the hills was more of a well-worn track. Yet they made better time once they reached the road. It led into a wide valley between two rocky hills, their slopes terraced to support crops. The Kaltari had not let a single inch of arable land go to waste.

At the other end of the valley, Kylon saw a small band of horsemen. The Kaltari typically wore dark green or gray, but the riders wore robes of bright colors, orange and yellow. Kylon could have seen them from a mile off. He had seen robes like that frequently during his journeys across Anshan and Istarinmul.

“Monks of the Living Flame,” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Strabane. “I reckon we’ve found the Emissary.” He smirked. “Before Erghulan’s lads did, too. No one knows the Highlands like the Kaltari. Come on.”

The monks reined up, and Strabane’s warriors came to a stop twenty yards away. Strabane dropped from his saddle, beckoning for Kylon to follow him. Together they walked to the monks. There were perhaps twenty of the monks, men and women both. From what Kylon understood both men and women could dedicate themselves to a life of service to the Living Flame, though they were forbidden from cohabitating.

In their midst sat a woman in early middle age, clad in a worn robe of yellow and orange. She looked Anshani, with dark hair and skin, and eyes like two disks of polished onyx. Her appearance was unremarkable, but her gaze met Kylon’s and he felt a jolt of power. Her eyes seemed to slice right though him, measuring and weighing him. The Surge’s gaze had felt the same way.

Kylon did not like the sensation.

“Greetings, Brothers and Sisters of the Living Flame,” said Strabane with a bow. He sounded more polite than Kylon had ever heard him. “I seek the Emissary of the Living Flame.”

“You have found her,” said an old Anshani man. He dropped from his saddle, wincing a little, and bowed. “I am Karzid, abbot of the community of the Brothers and Sisters at Silent Ash Temple. Might I know who you are?”

“I am Strabane, headman of Drynemet,” said Strabane. “The emir Tanzir Shahan received your message, and sent us to escort you to his host.”

“That was a kind gesture of the emir,” said Karzid, “but it is not necessary.”

“With respect, abbot, Lord Tanzir disagrees,” said Strabane. “Our scouts reported that the Grand Wazir sent horsemen into the hills. We believe they have come to capture or kill the Emissary. Lord Tanzir wishes us to see you to safety to his host.”

“Then we thank you, lord headman,” said Karzid. He spread his hands. “We are unarmed, and have no means of defending ourselves.”

“It speaks ill of the Grand Wazir that he is willing to attack priests and priestesses,” said Strabane. “The servants of the gods should be left alone during war, lest we draw their wrath upon our heads.”

“A practical perspective,” said Karzid with a dry smile, “but you can imagine I quite agree with it. We are in your hands, lord headman, and look forward to meeting the emir Tanzir and the son of the Padishah.”

Strabane started to answer, but a woman’s voice interrupted him.

“Stormdancer,” said the Emissary.

Her voice, like her appearance, was unremarkable, but Kylon felt the power there.

“Emissary?” said Karzid.

The Emissary dismounted and walked forward, limping as if her right hip pained her. As she approached, Kylon extended his sorcerous senses, feeling the Emissary’s emotional aura. Her aura was grave and solemn, though colored with pain from her hip. He also felt power within her, a vast and terrible power, as implacable as a glacier.

It was like looking into the eyes of the Surge, and Kylon flinched a little before he could stop himself.

“Yes,” murmured the Emissary, stepping a few yards away. “You understand.”

“This is Kylon of House Kardamnos, honored Emissary,” said Strabane. “He has been a valuable ally in many fights. Saved my life once, when some demon-cultists got the better of me.”

“I know who he is,” said the Emissary. Her dark eyes met Kylon’s. “He is the stormdancer. He is the one the demonslayer has chosen to bear the valikon. And that means you shall soon be tested in a terrible challenge.”

“Tested?” said Kylon. “By you?”

A wave of anger went through him, his sword hand curling into a fist. He knew it was irrational. He knew that the Emissary had nothing to do with Thalastre’s death. Yet his anger at the Surge seemed to fixate upon her. He felt the Kaltari and the monks staring at him, and resolved to keep silent. Let the Emissary speak her prophecy. It would likely make no sense anyway, and then they could begin the journey to join Tanzir…

“Not by me,” said the Emissary, “but by two terrible foes, two enemies undefeated and unconquered. Both will come for you, stormdancer. Starting right now.”

Kylon bit his tongue. He would not argue with the Emissary in front of men who revered the Living Flame. Then his brain started working through his furious emotions, and he realized that she had just given him a warning.

“Strabane,” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Strabane. “There.” He pointed at the road behind the monks. The road curved around the base of the rocky hill, but Kylon noted a faint brown smudge against the blue sky.

A dust cloud, likely thrown up by the hooves of horses.

“Looks like we just beat Erghulan’s men,” said Kylon.

“Aye,” said Strabane. “Lord abbot, move!” Karzid blinked and hastened forward, urging the Emissary and the other monks forward. “Everyone, dismount! Keep the enemy away from the monks and the Emissary!” Strabane glanced at the Emissary. “I don’t suppose you can foresee if we’re going to win or not?”

“Our fates, lord headman,” said the Emissary, her calm unperturbed, “are in your hands.”

But she looked at Kylon as she said it.

The Kaltari warriors moved into a ring around the monks and the horses, raising their shields and drawing their swords. Strabane drew his own blade, a huge two-handed greatsword. Kylon thought it a cumbersome weapon, but he had to admit the Kaltari headman knew how to get the most from the blade.

A moment later the horsemen burst into the valley.

There were thirty riders, and judging from their expensive armor, they were likely the personal guards of some emir or another. They wore chain mail shirts and the spiked helmets common to Istarish soldiers, and carried lances and scimitars. Horsemen usually had an advantage against infantry, but in this cramped valley, the horsemen would be unable to use their mounts’ speed and maneuverability. Maybe they would dismount and fight on foot like the Kaltari. If they did, the advantage would rest with Strabane’s warriors, who possessed greater numbers…

Then Kylon saw the man in white armor.

The white armor looked similar to the armor of the Alchemist Kylon had killed in Istarinmul, but far more ornate and adored with gold trim around the edges. A white cloak with golden trim streamed from his shoulders. Master Alchemists wore white robes with gold-trimmed cloaks, so Kylon supposed the custom would carry over to their battle armor. The armored man carried an enormous hammer of white steel, its head resting casually against his shoulder. The thing had to weigh at least eighty or ninety pounds, but he bore it with ease. His bronze-skinned face was shockingly youthful – younger than Kylon’s, younger even than Caina’s, and Caina was five or six years younger than he was.

Yet Master Alchemist’s black eyes were old and hard, full of contempt and arrogance. Master Alchemists could renew themselves using Elixir Rejuvenata, an alchemical elixir brewed from the ashes of unborn children cut from their mothers’ wombs. Likely this Master Alchemist was far older than he looked.

Then, as the Master Alchemist drew nearer, Kylon sensed something else.

Malice and rage and an endless cruel hunger radiated from within the white-armored man. There was a nagataaru spirit within the Master Alchemist, and a powerful one. That meant the man would be able to move with the same speed and power as the Red Huntress, and could also wield the powerful spells of a Master Alchemist.

He would be a deadly foe.

“Strabane,” said Kylon. “That Alchemist has a nagataaru.”

Strabane looked at Kylon, at the Master Alchemist, and then at Kylon.

“Hell,” muttered Strabane.

“Let me deal with him,” said Kylon.

He lifted the valikon, the Iramisian glyphs upon the blade starting to glow as the sword reacted the presence of a nagataaru.

Strabane snorted. “No objection. He’s all yours.”

The Master Alchemist reined up and lifted a hand, his gauntlet gleaming. “Hear me, warriors of the Highlands! I am Rhataban, Master of the College of Alchemists of Istarinmul. I seek the Emissary of the Living Flame.”

“You have found her, Rhataban, disciple of Callatas,” said the Emissary. Her voice was quiet but it carried throughout the valley.

“Splendid,” said Rhataban with smooth courtesy. “We have come to escort you and your attendants into the presence of the Grand Wazir. I do hope these rebels have not troubled you unduly.”

“These rebels,” said the Emissary, “are following a trueborn son of the Padishah. Unlike you, Master Rhataban.”

“I assure you,” said Rhataban, a hint of a smirk on his youthful face, “that the Padishah is quite alive and well. As you shall be. As for this charlatan who claims to be Prince Kutal, I fear you are simply deluded. Come with us, and we shall show you the truth of…”

“The truth?” said the Emissary, her voice cracking like a whip. “You wish the truth, slave of the nagataaru? Then have it! You care not who sits upon the Most Divine Padishah’s throne, for like your master Callatas, you have sold your soul in bondage to the nagataaru.” An uneasy murmur went through Strabane’s men. Some of them had fought Kaltari nagataaru-worshippers alongside Strabane and Kylon at Shaman Hill. “Your master has spread poison among the people of Istarinmul, offering them up as a sacrifice to the nagataaru…to the demon that now lives behind your eyes.”

For a moment Rhataban said nothing, and the two groups of soldiers eyed each other.

“I see,” said Rhataban at last. “The time for secrecy has passed? Shall we speak plainly?”

“You can lie to the Grand Wazir and the collection of fools surrounding him,” said Emissary. “You cannot lie to me. Not when I can see the serpent coiled around your heart.”

Rhataban laughed. “How dogmatic. How like an old woman! You fear what you do not understand. You think we are slaves of the nagataaru? Nonsense. No more than you are a slave to your horse. The nagataaru will give us the power to create a new humanity, one better and stronger than the old.”

“Lies,” said the Emissary.

“The Grand Master has proclaimed it to be so,” said Rhataban. “Those of us who are his disciples are the first of the new humanity.”

“Then your Grand Master is a liar and a fool,” said the Emissary. “You do not see how the nagataaru have twisted your thoughts, how they have poured poisonous lies into your hearts. You will not create a new humanity with the Grand Master’s Apotheosis. You will work only destruction. The nagataaru shall devour the world and leave only ashes and bones behind…”

“Enough!” said Rhataban, and a pulse of purple fire flickered in his dark eyes. “You are indeed a fool. I had hoped to take you to the steppes before I slew you, but cutting you down here will serve just as…”

He fell silent, and his head turned to stare at Kylon. Rhataban’s eyes narrowed, a thoughtful frown coming over his face, and Kylon had the impression that he was speaking with his nagataaru. The Huntress had done the same thing several times, listening to the counsel of the Voice.

“You,” said Rhataban, pointing his hammer at Kylon. “I know you. The stormdancer! Kylon Shipbreaker. The bearer of the valikon.”

Kylon said nothing, the valikon’s blade flickering with a harsh white flame.

Rhataban sneered. “The demonslayer’s lover. Kotuluk Iblis has decreed her death.” He blinked, as if surprised to hear the words that had come from his mouth, but kept talking. “The Grand Master shall reward me greatly for your death.”

“Then do it,” said Kylon.

“Kylon Shipbreaker!” said Rhataban, and purple fire blazed in his eyes as he donned a helmet of white steel. “The man who broke the Empire’s western fleet! Let us see if I am able to break you! Attack! Take the Emissary!”

The horsemen spurred their horses forward, and Rhataban leaped from his saddle, raising his massive hammer high. Despite the weight of his armor and weapons, he jumped from the back of his horse with the grace of an acrobat, the hammer falling like a thunderbolt. Kylon seized the sorcery of air and flung himself to the side, moving with the speed of the wind.

It barely saved his life.

The hammer struck the ground in an explosion of dirt, the heavy head missing Kylon by inches. He struck back with the valikon, the white-burning edge hammering against Rhataban’s armor. Yet the white steel was as strong as the armor of the Alchemist Kylon had fought outside of the Imperial Embassy. The valikon rebounded from Rhataban’s cuirass without leaving a scratch, and the Master Alchemist whirled, shifting his hammer to his right hand.

His left hand came up, the fingers blazing with golden fire.

Kylon snapped the valikon up to block as golden fire lashed from Rhataban’s hand, striking the ghostsilver blade. The spell shattered against the sword, and suddenly the grass around his feet transmuted into spikes of glittering blue crystal. Kylon leaped back as Rhataban strode forward, the crystalline grass shattering beneath his armored boots. Once, twice, three times the hammer came at him, and Kylon dodged every time.

Around them the horsemen charged into the Kaltari warriors. At Strabane’s bellowed command, the warriors had formed into a shield wall, and seemed to be holding their own against the horsemen. Raised shields deflected the thrust of spears and the stab of swords, and the Kaltari struck at the horses themselves, maddening the beasts with pain and sending them galloping towards the road. Singing rose over the battle, and Kylon realized that the monks had begun a hymn to the Living Flame, calling upon the power of divine justice to shield them.

Rhataban was inhumanly fast and strong, stronger than Kylon even with the sorcery of water, but not quite as fast. The Master Alchemist’s armor might have been transmuted for greater strength and reduced weight, but it still slowed him down. At last Rhataban’s momentum played out, and Kylon went on the attack, circling around the Master Alchemist. He landed hit after hit, but to no avail. The valikon did nothing against the white armor. Had the armor been simply enspelled, the valikon would have shattered the spells. Yet the white metal had been transmuted into something harder and lighter than common steel, and the valikon could not leave a scratch upon it.

And as Kylon fought, more golden fire gathered in in Rhataban’s left hand, and the Master Alchemist flung out his arm. Kylon leapt backwards, raising the valikon in guard, preparing to deflect the transmutation spell once more.

This time, the spell hadn’t been aimed at him.

The shaft of golden fire struck the ground, and the hard, tough earth beneath Kylon’s boots shimmered. In an instant both grass and earth had transmuted into quicksand. The muck grasped at Kylon’s boots, and he felt himself sinking, his feet held immobile.

Rhataban swung his hammer, the metal head blurring for Kylon’s face.

Kylon drew upon his full strength, every scrap of water sorcery he could muster, and jumped. The movement heaved him backwards, ripping him free of the quicksand, but the very tip of Rhataban’s hammer brushed his chest. That was enough to send pain exploding through his torso, and change his direction so he fell hard to the side. He landed upon his right arm, and Rhataban leaped over the pool of quicksand, his hammer coming up. Kylon threw himself to the side and rolled, and the hammer sank into the earth with enough force to make the ground shake.

He rolled back to his feet, his chest and side throbbing, and raised the valikon in guard. Rhataban smiled and stalked towards him, lifting his hammer for another strike.

“Unimpressive,” said Rhataban. “It is astonishing that the demonslayer has eluded us for so long when she relies upon such weak fools as you.”

“Perhaps she survived because you wasted so much time talking,” said Kylon.

“Easily rectified,” said Rhataban, and the Master Alchemist stalked forward.

Kylon retreated, risking a look around the battlefield. Strabane’s warriors were holding their own against Rhataban’s horsemen, and Kylon thought they might prevail. But if Rhataban killed Kylon, he would butcher every last one the Kaltari and the monks.

It was time to change tactics.

One of the dead horsemen lay nearby, blood leaking from a head smashed by a Kaltari axe, his broken spear lying next to him. Kylon shifted the valikon to his right hand and snatched the broken spear. The staff was still five feet long, and he adjusted his grip, calling the sorcery of water to swirl freezing mist around the spear while the sorcery of air lent him speed. Kylon went on the attack, swinging the broken staff, concentrating his blows upon Rhataban’s right arm.

The Master Alchemist’s scornful laughter filled Kylon’s ears.

“A stick?” said Rhataban, making no effort to block as Kylon jabbed him in the right arm again. “A broken stick? Is this how you defeated the Imperial fleet? Is this how you saved the demonslayer?” He advanced a few steps, and Kylon hit his right arm again. “Pathetic. Why the demonslayer bestowed the valikon upon you, I shall never know.”

He drew back his arm to launch another blow with his hammer, and with a metallic grating noise, his arm went motionless.

Rhataban had superhuman strength bestowed by his nagataaru, and his armor had been transmuted into something stronger than normal steel…but it was still metal, and enough frost made plates of metal stick together.

It only slowed Rhataban for an instant, but an instant was all that Kylon needed. He drew back the spear and stabbed again, and this time the broken spear skidded beneath the lip of his helm, striking Rhataban in the neck. Kylon felt it bite, pouring all the sorcery of water he could manage into the wound.

Rhataban screamed in fury and raked his hammer before him, and Kylon had no choice but jump back. The hammer’s wild blow ripped the broken spear from his hand. Kylon braced himself to attack again, but it seemed Rhataban had lost his belly for the fight. He leaped backwards, soaring over the battle, his white cloak billowing around him. The Master Alchemist landed with a grunt, one had still clutching his wounded neck.

Kylon felt the hate and the rage pouring off the nagataaru, the rage colored by the furious hunger of the malevolent spirit. Rhataban would not forgive or forget this injury, and neither would the nagataaru within him.

“Withdraw!” roared Rhataban, his voice booming over the valley. Kylon shot a look around and saw that the Kaltari had held fast against the horsemen. Strabane’s warriors had taken losses, but the horsemen had gotten the worse of the fighting. “Withdraw!”

The horsemen fled, and the Kaltari roared and charged, cutting down their fleeing foes before they could escape. Kylon started to pursue Rhataban, but the Master Alchemist retreated from the battlefield with inhuman speed, leaping over boulders and chasms and leaving his men to their fate.

###

Strabane wound up losing six men, nine more wounded with varying degrees of severity. Given that they had killed twenty-six of the enemy, the Kaltari headman seemed satisfied with the exchange, though his eyes blazed with wrath whenever he looked at his dead men.

“Exile,” said Strabane. “That was a hell of a fight.”

Kylon shook his head. “Rhataban got away. We haven’t seen the last of him.”

Strabane scowled and spat upon the turf. “It’s just as well you thought to come with us. That Alchemist would have slaughtered us all.” He spat again. “Damned sorcerers! Ever since I fell in with Nasser and his crew, it’s been nothing but one damned sorcerer after another.”

“I understand,” said Kylon.

“Sorcerers and spirits and devils,” said Strabane. “By the Living Flame! Give me a battle between mortal men with mortal steel. No sorcery or spirits or other such madness.” He glanced at Kylon. “Except you. You’re sane enough.”

Despite his exhaustion, Kylon managed a laugh. “High praise, sir.”

“We’d best get back,” said Strabane. “The sooner we get the Emissary to the emir and the prince, the better. Then we can whip Erghulan, you can finish whipping Rhataban, and we can march to Istarinmul and whip Callatas.”

“Aye,” said Kylon. “I’m sure it will be that easy.”

“First time for everything,” said Strabane, and he strode off to take charge of his men. The dead Kaltari would be taken back to the host to be burned in accordance with the traditional funeral rites.

The dead horsemen would be left for the vultures, once they had been stripped of their valuables.

Kylon closed his eyes and let out a long breath, the exhaustion flooding through him. Fighting with a sword was tiring enough, but fighting while holding his full power was an additional strain. He had pushed himself to his limit, and it still had barely been enough. If Kylon had been slightly slower, or if Rhataban had realized the trick with the ice, then he would have killed Kylon and all the others.

Rhataban would not fall for the same trick twice…and Kylon had no doubt that he would face the nagataaru-infested Master Alchemist once again.

He opened his eyes and saw the Emissary staring at him from across the valley.

Anger cut through Kylon. Kaltari warriors had died to bring to the Emissary to Tanzir’s host, so the men could be inspired by the blessings of a useless oracle and her cryptic riddles…

Kylon forced aside his anger and went to help the Kaltari collect their horses.

They left a short time later, riding back to the north, and Kylon stayed away from the Emissary and her attendants.

Chapter 11: Heresy

Someone knocked at Caina’s door.

She opened her eyes. They were less than a day away from Pyramid Isle, and her headache had grown with every passing hour. She suspected it was a reaction to the potent necromantic aura surrounding the island. Ancient necromancy shrouded Pyramid Isle, combined with the crumbling Iramisian wards surrounding the Tomb of Kharnaces, and the mingled aura of the competing spells was…potent.

If she concentrated, the sight of the valikarion detected a faint, flickering haze in the air, the outer edge of those potent spells.

“Caina?” said Annarah’s voice through the door.

Caina sat up. Her head hurt, but she felt otherwise healthy, her mind clear, her heart tight with controlled fear and anger.

She was as ready as she would ever be to face Callatas.

“We’re here?” said Caina, reaching for her boots.

“Aye,” said Annarah, her voice tighter, “but…there’s something I think you should see right now.”

That caught Caina’s attention. Annarah almost always kept a level head, and the slight note of tension in her voice was like a panicked shout from another woman. If something had happened to worry Annarah, it was serious indeed. Caina pulled on her boots, made sure her ghostsilver dagger and throwing knives were in place, and got to her feet.

Annarah and Morgant stood in the narrow corridor outside her cabin door.

“Trouble?” said Caina.

“What else?” said Morgant.

Caina opened her mouth to ask another question, and then heard the rasping noise. It was a grinding, scraping sound, exactly the sort of noise a ship would make as it ran against a submerged reef…and many such reefs surrounded Pyramid Isle. For an awful instant Caina was certain that the Sandstorm had run aground on a reef. Yet the noise wasn’t loud enough for that, and Caina didn’t feel any unusual vibrations in the deck.

“Let’s take a look,” said Caina, and she headed for the ladder to the deck, Annarah and Morgant following.

The hot, wet air on the deck struck Caina across the face like a wet towel. Sweat started to bead on her forehead and temples at once, and she was grateful that she had tied her hair back as part of her disguise. Despite the heat, the sky was overcast and gray, an occasional flash of silent lightning leaping through the mountainous clouds. To the east a thick band of fog floated low over the waters.

Pyramid Isle rose from the gloom.

A low peak of white stone clawed against the sky, standing perhaps a thousand feet tall, the hill’s crest flat. At the base of the hill Caina saw the brilliant green of the jungle that grew upon the humid isle, and glimpsed the broad beach that encircled the jungle. To the vision of the valikarion, the entire island shimmered with a faint haze of necromantic energy. A cold chill went through her at the sight of the pyramid-shaped hill. Her last experience on Pyramid Isle had not been pleasant at all, and her skin crawled at the memories.

Yet for the moment, the island was in the background.

The wrecked galley held the majority of her attention.

The galley rocked in the waters about a hundred yards ahead, listing badly on its port side. It was far lower than it should have been in the water, the waves starting to splash over the rail and onto the deck. A shudder went through the galley, and Caina realized that it had caught on a submerged reef. The surf drove the keel against the reef with every wave, and to judge from the creaking noises coming from the galley, the ship would soon break apart.

“Callatas’s ship,” said Annarah. “That must have been his ship.”

“It’s an Istarish galley,” said Morgant with a shrug. He pointed at the ship’s leaning mast. “Look.” A banner with a crown-and-sword sigil, the badge of the Padishahs of Istarinmul, hung from the mast.

“He would have taken a galley from the Towers of the Sea,” said Caina. “But he’s been here before. He ought to have known where the reefs were. Why…”

She turned and climbed to the stern, where Captain Murat, Karlazain, and the helmsman stood near the ship’s wheel. From time to time Karlazain barked an order for the crew to adjust this line or that sail, and the corsairs hastened to obey.

“Master Ciaran,” said Murat, his hard eyes shifting to her. “It seems you are not the only one coming to steal the treasures of Pyramid Isle.”

“Reefs,” said Caina. “You said Pyramid Isle was surrounded by reefs.”

Murat shrugged, his red coat rippling in the hot wind coming from the east. “Dozens of them. I mapped the reefs out a few years back when I started using the island as a hiding place.”

“Can reefs change?” said Caina. “Over the years, I mean?”

Murat gave her an odd look. “Aye. The water wears them away or a storm rips them down, or the coral grows into a new one.” His eyes narrowed. “You happen to know how our friends got here?”

“A magistrate in the Padishah’s service found a map leading to buried relics on Pyramid Isle,” said Caina, deciding to give Murat a highly edited version of the truth. “The chart was a hundred and fifty years old.”

Murat laughed. “Idiot. That’s why you always take fresh soundings. And that’s why we’re going so slowly.” He gestured to the bow, where a pair of corsairs stood with a weighted sounding line.

“That ship must have wrecked recently,” said Caina.

“Mmm,” said Murat. “Probably this morning. See all the sharks?”

Caina saw the fins cutting back and forth through the waves, and sometimes she caught glimpses of the sleek, deadly creatures just beneath the surface of the water. “Aye.”

“They’re still here, which means the ship wrecked itself recently,” said Murat. “I don’t hear anyone screaming or shouting for help, which means the sharks have gorged themselves…”

“Or there’s no one left to eat,” said Caina, trying not to shudder. She had seen people die in all manner of terrible ways. She had not yet, however, seen anyone torn apart by a shark, and had no desire to add that sight to her collection of grim memories.

“Likely this magistrate of yours abandoned the ship and took refuge on the island,” said Murat. “Left the galley slaves to die in the process.”

“None of them might have survived?” said Caina.

Murat gave an indifferent shrug. “Likely not. The slaves are chained to their oars, and the oar deck is below the waterline, see?” He gestured at the ship, and Caina saw the oars rippling beneath the waves, vanishing with every spray of surf. “They would have drowned by now, and if any escaped, the sharks would have taken them.” He shrugged. “I am not so hard-hearted that I would leave men to drown or be eaten. All sailors live in dread of shipwreck. But there is no one here to be saved.”

“I suppose not,” said Caina. Another wave hit the galley, stronger than the first, and the ship let out a creaking groan. A piece of the hull floated away, bobbing upon the waves, and the galley dipped a little lower. Did that mean Callatas was dead? Caina could not believe it. After a hundred and fifty years, after all his crimes and mad sorcery, could Callatas have simply drowned in a shipwreck? That would solve everything. If Callatas drowned, his body taken by the sharks, then his blood would never reach Kharnaces. And if he had died, the Staff and the Seal would lie at the bottom of the Alqaarin Sea for all time, and the Apotheosis would never come to pass…

No. Callatas would have had some means of ensuring his survival, some way of ensuring that he reached Pyramid Isle alive.

Even as the thought crossed Caina’s mind, Karlazain spoke.

“Captain,” he said. “An Istarish galley that size usually carries four longboats.”

Caina looked at the wrecked ship. There were only two longboats left.

“It seems some of our friends escaped,” said Murat. “Get some men up into the rigging with crossbows. If any boats approach the ship, shoot them.”

Karlazain nodded and strode towards the center deck, shouting orders.

“Why?” said Annarah, surprised.

“Because,” said Caina, “the Sandstorm is their only way home.”

“Aye,” said Murat. “They can pay for passage, if they wish, but if they try to take my ship, the sharks can have them.” He wiped some of the glittering sweat from his forehead. “I suppose they made for the island. They would have had to, since it’s the only place they’ll find drinkable water. If they’re lucky, they found water. If they’re unlucky, the devils in the jungle took them.”

“Aye,” said Caina. She had seen those “devils” firsthand. Undead baboons, their ancient flesh preserved by the necromantic sciences of old Maat, their withered flesh inhabited by a nagataaru spirit. Within the Tomb of Kharnaces were worse things, undead warriors animated by powerful necromantic spells, possessing the skill and speed of elite soldiers. Caina and Kylon had fought their way past some of the undead creatures, and hundreds more guarded the chamber holding the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.

None of those creatures would be a match for Callatas. Not at least until their master arrived to take his former pupil in hand…

But Caina doubted that Callatas had gone alone to the islands. Two longboats were missing from the wrecked galley, and each one of those longboats could have held twenty or thirty men. Someone would have had to accompany Callatas – Caina could not see the exalted Grand Master soiling his hands with the mundane work of rowing to shore.

“This is far as we’re going,” said Murat.

Caina looked at him.

“It is as close as we came the last time,” said Murat. “You and Markaine can row the woman to shore easily enough. After that…well, your fool lives are in your own hands. The same terms as before. We shall wait a week for you. If you return in that time, we shall take you back to Istarinmul, and you shall pay us. If you do not return in a week’s time, we shall assume the devils have eaten you and depart before they eat us.”

Caina nodded “Fair enough. Thank you, Captain.”

Murat scoffed. “Thank Nasser. He’s the one who paid on time. And the lot of you are fools. You barely escaped this place once. What madness drove you back a second time?”

Caina had no desire to explain. Telling Murat the truth would be foolish – if he knew that Grand Master Callatas had come to Pyramid Isle, he might try to aid the Grand Master in hopes of reward. Or he would pursue the more sensible course and flee as fast as the wind could carry him.

“Captain,” said Caina, “if anyone other than us approaches your vessel, you should probably flee as quickly as you can.”

“I was going to do that anyway,” said Murat. He hesitated. “Good luck, Ciaran. You’re a suicidal madman, but you throw knives like no one I’ve met.”

Caina grinned. “If we get back to Istarinmul, I’ll buy you a set of the knives I used to beat you at the Corsair’s Rest.”

Murat’s eyes narrowed. “The Corsair’s Rest burned down. Do you know anything about that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Caina.

Murat snorted, and Caina walked away.

She joined Annarah and Morgant at the middle of the deck. Four of Murat’s crew swung a smaller longboat over the side. Caina and Morgant could likely row it together, though it would be a challenge. After they boarded the boat, the corsairs swung it over the side of the ship, lowered it to the water, and released the ropes. Caina took the port oar and Morgant the starboard, and together they rowed towards Pyramid Isle, Annarah keeping watch from the prow. She had changed to clothes similar to Caina’s, leather boots and trousers and jerkin, though with her long silver hair and her fuller figure no one would mistake her for a man.

“See anything?” said Caina as they drew nearer to the island.

“Yes,” said Annarah. “The longboats. They’re lying abandoned near where we found that old Maatish dock.” She paused. “Those are large boats. Callatas might have as many as fifty Immortals with him.”

“Won’t do him any good,” said Morgant. “Chain whips and scimitars won’t help against the undead baboons.”

“Or Kharnaces himself” said Annarah.

“Do you see anyone on the beach?” said Caina.

“No,” said Annarah. “No one.”

Caina whispered a curse. Their best hope had been to arrive first and lay an ambush for Callatas, but it seemed the Grand Master had reached the isle already.

At last the boat rasped against the bottom, and they got out, dragging the boat the rest of the way to the shore. Caina looked again at the broad, wide beach, at the wall of vivid green jungle rising at the edge of the sand. The jungle was eerily, unnaturally silent, most likely because the undead baboons killed any animals they could catch. Monoliths of white stone stood at regular intervals before the jungle, carved with Iramisian symbols that Caina realized she could now read, symbols of warding, defense, and containment. At the water’s edge stood the tumbled ruins of a small fortress, its walls marked with weathered Maatish hieroglyphs. It was a testament to the prowess of the ancient Maatish engineers that the remnants of the fortress had weathered the wind and waves for so long.

“Just a little further,” said Annarah, her face tight as she helped carry the boat. “Just a little more.”

Caina’s boot touched the soil of Pyramid Isle, and she reeled in shock.

The vision of the valikarion blazed with sickly green flame before her eyes. She saw the necromantic aura hanging over the entire island like a tattered shroud, radiating from the pyramid-like hill. She also saw the crumbling warding spells shining like letters of fire upon the white monoliths, warding spells eroding beneath the relentless assault of the necromantic aura. The dark power seemed to be spinning, spiraling over the pyramid-shaped hill like a massive storm vortex.

“Caina,” said Annarah. “Caina!”

Caina blinked, shook her head, and realized that she had dropped her side of the boat.

“What’s wrong?” said Annarah.

“The vision of the valikarion,” said Caina, grabbing the boat before the waves could pull it away from Morgant and Annarah. Her headache had gotten worse. “I…wasn’t expecting it.” She felt the necromantic aura against her skin like faint pins and needles. “Come on. Let’s get the boat above the tide line.”

“And someplace out of sight,” said Morgant.

“The old dock,” said Caina, jerking her head at the Maatish ruins. Together they dragged the boat into the ruins, depositing it at the foot of a pillar adorned with Maatish hieroglyphics. Caina set down the boat with a sigh, breathing hard, her shoulders aching from the effort of rowing and carrying. To her mild annoyance, Morgant was not winded, but he never seemed to sweat, either.

“What did you see?” said Annarah.

“The aura,” said Caina. “The island’s necromantic aura. It was just…so much more intense than I expected. It startled me.”

“The valikarion once knew how to focus their sight,” said Annarah. “I would teach you, but I know not how.”

“Nor is this the time,” said Morgant, buttoning up his black coat to the collar. With his white shirt hidden, his dark clothes were more effective at stealth than she would have thought. “Well, we’ve come all this way to kill the Grand Master, so we should get on to it.”

Caina nodded. “You brought your ring?”

He reached into a pocket of his coat and produced a tarnished-looking bronze ring. To Caina’s valikarion sight, it gave off a peculiar gray light that soaked into Morgant’s hand. Morgant had told contradictory stories about how he had acquired the ring, but so long as he wore it, he was immune to sorcerous detection…and hopefully the otherworldly senses of the nagataaru. Morgant claimed that if he fell asleep while wearing the ring its power would drive him into madness, but Caina wasn’t sure that would make much difference to his personality. Morgant donned the ring, and the gray light vanished as the ring’s power shielded him from arcane detection.

“Annarah,” said Caina.

Annarah gestured, and her pyrikon bracelet unfolded from her wrist, reshaping itself with peculiar fluid movements. Bronze rings encircled her fingers, joined by slender chains to the main body of the pyrikon, which had become thicker and heavier. It looked like a peculiar bronze glove, and when the pyrikon was in that form, it shielded Annarah’s mind and presence from sorcerous detection. Caina could have done the same with her own pyrikon, but given that a valikarion was immune to sorcerous detection, it seemed redundant.

Nevertheless, she drew out her shadow-cloak and pulled it over her shoulders. Becoming a valikarion had made her immune to sorcerous detection, but she was hardly invisible, and the shadow-cloak would help with that.

“We’ll follow Callatas,” said Caina. “It’s impossible not to leave tracks on the beach, and we should be able to follow his trail.” Given that he would make for the Tomb of Kharnaces at once, they could figure out where he was going. “Then we find a way to ambush him.”

“Just how will we do that?” said Morgant. “Perhaps you and Annarah shall don your costumes from the circus and dance as a distraction while I stab him in the back?”

“Truly, your insights are as brilliant as ever,” said Caina, stepping out of the ruins as the others followed her, “but I left my costume in Istarinmul.” Annarah laughed a little at that. “Or we could cut down a tree and have it fall on him.”

“Yes, he surely won’t notice the sound of an axe,” said Morgant.

“No,” said Caina, glancing back at him, “but he might not notice the sound of your dagger.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing Morgant open his mouth, close it again, and then frown. A pity Kylon wasn’t here to see it.

“That might work,” he admitted at last.

“So we sneak up behind Callatas, cut a tree so it falls on him, and then you…” said Annarah.

“Slice his throat with the ghostsilver dagger,” said Caina, tapping the weapon at her belt.

“It seems so simple,” said Annarah.

“The simplest plans,” said Morgant, “are the best.”

“Less chance for something to go wrong,” said Caina, though she could think of any number of things that might go wrong. “Let’s go.”

She led the way from the ruined little fortress, heading towards the two longboats lying at the edge of the surf. Callatas had not bothered to pull them above the tide line, and once the tide came in, the longboats would be washed out to sea.

Evidently Callatas had not planned on ever leaving Pyramid Isle. Caina wondered how badly the compulsion had damaged his thoughts, if he realized how irrationally he had been acting. When Kharnaces had laid the compulsion upon Caina, she had not realized it, and the compulsion had manifested as an overwhelming desire to bring the Staff and the Seal to Callatas. She had been certain that it had been necessary to defeat Callatas, and only after Kylon had driven the necromantic poison from her veins had Caina realized the truth. Perhaps the compulsion had affected Callatas in the same way.

On the other hand, he was willing to kill everyone in the world in pursuit of his mad dream, so perhaps he wasn’t all that rational anyway.

Caina looked over the longboats, noting the fresh scratches left by armor and scabbards upon the wood, and the many, many footprints that led to the north.

“Immortals,” said Morgant.

“Aye,” said Caina. “At least forty of them. He had hundreds with him when he attacked the Desert Maiden.”

“We accounted for a few of them,” said Morgant with a smirk.

“He must have brought the rest with him to the island,” said Caina. “All that survived the shipwreck, anyway.”

“We can’t fight our way past forty Immortals,” said Morgant.

“We might not have to,” said Caina, glancing at the jungle. The nagataaru-infested undead baboons had not made an appearance, but it was possible they could not see Caina and Morgant and Annarah, and it was also possible they were not strong enough to break through the circle of Iramisian warding stones.

It was also possible they had been drawn to Callatas’s Immortals.

“They went north,” said Caina, and she led the way as they followed the tracks of the Immortals along the beach. She tried to find Callatas’s footprints amidst the heavy prints of the Immortals, but it was a futile effort. She listened for the sounds of any enemies, but she heard only the crash of the surf to her left, the whistling of the wind, and the rustling of the broad green leaves of the jungle.

No seagulls, though. Every port that Caina had ever visited had seagulls. Not Pyramid Isle. She suspected bad things happened to any seagull foolish enough to nest upon the rocky white hill. On the plus side, she didn’t smell any seagull dung, just the brisk salt of the Alqaarin Sea and the harsh, metallic smell of human blood…

Caina came to a stop, and looked at Annarah, who nodded, her hand raised in the beginnings of a spell.

“What?” said Morgant. “I don’t see anything.”

“You really can’t smell that?” said Caina.

“I’m two hundred and five years old,” said Morgant. “My sense of smell is not what it once was. Considering the amount of time that has passed since any of us have bathed, that is probably for the best.”

“Blood,” said Caina. “A lot of it.”

“Ah,” said Morgant. “If Callatas bleeds to death on the beach, that solves all our problems.”

“Let’s find out,” said Caina.

She strode forward, her ghostsilver dagger in her hand. Morgant drew his crimson scimitar and black dagger in silence, and white light began to glimmer around Annarah’s hand. Caina wished Kylon was here. Morgant was capable enough in a fight, but she had never seen a fighter like Kylon, strength and fury driven by skill and cold control.

Oh, gods, she missed Kylon, for more reason than one…

Then she saw the black shapes.

Dozens of Immortals lay motionless upon the beach, their blood seeping into the sand. As Caina drew closer, she saw that they had died in great pain. Something had ripped away their skull masks and bitten out their throats, or clawed off their faces. A dozen leathery, withered shapes lay motionless around the dead Immortals, and Caina recognized the familiar forms of Kharnaces’s undead baboons.

“By the Divine,” murmured Annarah. “A terrible way to die.”

“Aye,” said Caina, staring at one of the withered baboons.

“Forty-two Immortals,” said Morgant. “That must have been all of them. Callatas is on his own now.”

“No,” said Caina in a quiet voice. “He might not be.”

One of the mummified baboons had been cut in half from head to crotch. The cut was perfect, utterly perfect, with no ragged edges. The Immortals would have been more than strong enough to cut one of the baboons in half, but their steel scimitars would have shattered bones and torn the leathery flesh, not sliced it as neatly as a scalpel.

Or as the sword of dark power that Kalgri the Red Huntress wielded against her foes.

“There will be two sets of tracks heading from here,” said Caina, walking around the dead Immortals.

“You’re right,” said Annarah. “How did you know?”

Two sets of footprints went north along the beach, both made by booted feet. One set was larger and closer together, the other smaller with a wider stride. Like the tracks left by an old man and a young, healthy woman.

“The Huntress,” said Caina. “She’s here, with Callatas.”

“But we thought she would go after Sulaman and Tanzir,” said Annarah, her green eyes wide. “We thought…”

“I was wrong!” said Caina, louder than she intended. She forced herself back to calm, though her heart hammered within her chest. Callatas was far more powerful and dangerous than the Red Huntress, but the thought of facing Kalgri filled Caina with dread. “I was wrong. We’ll have to find a way to deal with them both.” She took a deep breath. “Even if it means our lives. Too many other lives are at stake.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“So be it,” said Annarah.

“No one lives forever, I suppose,” said Morgant. “And Callatas never paid me for painting that damned mural. I suppose stealing back the Staff and the Seal would settle the debt.”

Caina nodded, and they followed the tracks along the beach.

Chapter 12: Emissary

The army of the emir Tanzir Shahan marched north in the name of the prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, rightful heir to the throne of the Padishah.

The nomad horsemen of Tibraim and the other headmen went first, scouting the path of the army for any foes. Then came the heavy horsemen, the retinues of the emirs and the mercenaries hired by Tanzir, the Company of Shopur and the Black Wolves and a dozen others. Kylon was not sure how loyal the mercenaries would remain if the battle went sour, but Tanzir had foreseen the danger and scattered the mercenaries among the Istarish nobles, keeping them from forming a unified force.

After the horsemen came the Kaltari warriors, grim and armored in chain mail shirts with spiked helms, and then the militia raised from the free farmers of the southern emirates. They might have been farmers, but they were nonetheless battle-hardened by frequent skirmishes with Anshani raiders, Sarbian nomads, bandits…and, recently, the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul.

For all that Caina had blamed herself for the start of Istarinmul’s civil war, Kylon knew it would have happened eventually even if Caina had done nothing. The Brotherhood had been kidnapping people from the southern emirates for years, and anger had been building for all that time. Caina’s attacks on the Brotherhood had just sped up the inevitable unraveling.

After the militia came the supply train, and two companies of mercenary engineers. The supply train was better organized than Kylon had thought. Tanzir had made the emir Kuldan Cimak the army’s quartermaster, and when Kylon had met Cimak in the Vale of Fallen Stars, he had seemed like a drunken wastrel more interested in composing epic poetry than in doing anything useful, but the man seemed to have a talent for organization.

“I suggest,” said Nasser as Kylon rode next to him, “that you remain near Lord Tanzir and Prince Sulaman. When the Huntress strikes, she will almost certainly target the leaders of the army.” Nasser was armored for war, in chain mail with a shield slung over his shoulder, the reins gripped in his right fist.

“I am surprised,” said Kylon, “that she hasn’t attacked yet.”

“I fear,” said Nasser, “that you know her methods better than anyone else here.”

That was all too true.

“Then she’s likely following us,” said Kylon, “or disguised as a soldier in the army or one of the camp followers. She’ll have her shadow-cloak so I can’t sense her nagataaru. Probably she will try to strike at the time she can do the most harm. The height of the battle, most likely. She will cut down Tanzir and Sulaman and as many others before she can get away safely.”

Nasser nodded. “You see why we wish you to remain near Sulaman and Tanzir.”

Kylon shook his head. “Or she’ll do something clever we haven’t foreseen, like at Rumarah.”

Nasser smiled. “Then you can definitely see why we wish you to remain near Sulaman and Tanzir.”

“I can’t be everywhere at once,” said Kylon.

“No,” said Nasser, “but the Huntress will not show herself openly, not when you carry that sword.” He nodded at the valikon riding in its sheath on Kylon’s back. “She may try to come for the Emissary, I suspect.”

“Then let the Emissary see the future and avert it,” said Kylon. The words came out harder than he intended.

They rode in silence for a moment.

“We do appreciate your help, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser.

Kylon snorted and looked towards the north, thinking of Pyramid Isle. “You know why I am doing this.”

“Nevertheless,” said Nasser.

“Though you and Lord Martin seem to have taken over the army,” said Kylon.

Nasser blinked, and then let out a laugh, amusement rolling through his emotional sense. “Hardly. It is the emir Tanzir’s host. He commands here, and were Lord Martin and I to attempt to usurp his authority, we should find ourselves executed in short order. No, this is Tanzir’s army…and Sulaman’s, now that the Emissary has proclaimed him the rightful heir of the Padishah. Lord Martin and I simply have more experience commanding men in battle than Lord Tanzir, and the emir is wise enough to listen to advice.”

“And I suppose you are wise enough,” said Kylon, “to phrase your advice as eminently reasonable suggestions, so that all can agree the emir Tanzir came up with the idea?”

Nasser’s white smile flashed over his dark face. “Why, Lord Kylon. You are far too young a man to be so cynical.”

“I am a man who is both experienced in politics while completely inept at them,” said Kylon. “If that does not make a man cynical, nothing does.”

Nasser raised an eyebrow. “Or the influence of Caina Amalas?”

Kylon hesitated. His outlook had changed a great deal since meeting her, long before he had even kissed her for the first time. Once he had followed his sister and the Assembly unquestioningly, and it would never have occurred to him to think that a war with the Empire was a bad idea. Once he had been served by the slaves of House Kardamnos, and he had never questioned it, and if he had even thought about it at all, he would have assumed that it was the proper order of life.

A lot of things had changed since he had first laid eyes on Caina Amalas in the Great Market of Marsis.

“Or I’m just older,” said Kylon.

Nasser laughed. “We all are, I fear.”

The army marched for the rest of the day and at last made camp, straddling the Great Southern Road. Tibraim and the rest of the scouts thought it probable that they would meet the Grand Wazir’s host tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. Likely Erghulan would try to parley at first, to convince the rebels to stand down.

When that failed, he would attack.

Kylon stayed near the heart of the camp, where Tanzir and Sulaman and the other leaders raised their tents. So far he had seen no sign of the Huntress. For that matter, he had seen no women save for Lady Claudia and Kirzi, though he had no doubt that some of the minor emirs had smuggled a few camp followers into their tents.

Tanzir and Sulaman and Nasser and Lord Martin and the others were dining together, but Kylon was not in the mood for company. It was the sort of dinner he would have enjoyed under other circumstances, but he knew the value for morale of fighting men, and he didn’t want his grim mood to infect the others.

So he sat alone on the back of a wagon not far from the center of the camp, eating a piece of bread and drinking from a cup of bitter wine. He kept his sense of water sorcery at a low level, the emotions of the camp brushing against his mind. A great deal of fear came from the camp, but also determination. No man wanted to look a coward in front of his fellows, of course, but at least some of the men also believed that their cause was just, that they were marching to restore the lawful ruler of Istarinmul and drive out the villains who had seized control of the city. The rumors of Callatas’s crimes had spread through all of Istarinmul.

Of course, Kylon mused, even the rumors could not match up to the reality of the things Callatas had done.

His arcane senses were extended, so he was not surprised when the abbot Karzid approached him.

“Lord Kylon,” said Karzid with a bow. The setting sun threw stark shadows across his lined face.

“Lord abbot,” said Kylon.

“Ah,” said Karzid with a smile. “I am not really a lord, my lord Kylon.”

“Neither am I,” said Kylon, watching him. “Not any longer.”

“I come with a message,” said Karzid. “The Emissary would speak with you.”

“No,” said Kylon.

Karzid blinked. “I am sorry?”

Kylon got to his feet, looming over the shorter man. Karzid took a hasty step back, and a flicker of guilt went through Kylon. He could probably have broken the old monk in half even without using water sorcery.

“I do not,” said Kylon, sitting back down, “wish to speak with the Emissary.”

Karzid lifted his wispy eyebrows. “There are men who traveled thousands of miles to speak with her.”

“I am not one of them,” said Kylon.

“The Balarigar herself traveled to Silent Ash Temple to consult with the Emissary,” said Karzid.

“She needed this,” said Kylon, tapping the hilt of the valikon that rose over his shoulder.

“She also set the Balarigar,” said Karzid, “on the path that led her to you.”

Another wave of anger rolled through Kylon. He did not want to talk about Caina, and he certainly did not want to talk about Caina with the Emissary. Yet the Emissary had given Caina vital information, information that had let her recover the Staff and Seal of Iramis and rescue Annarah from the Inferno.

“I am not the heir to the Padishah’s throne,” said Kylon. “I am not an emir of Istarinmul. I am not even a lord any longer. I am a man with a sword and a few spells. If your Emissary is so eager to dole out cryptic advice, let her present herself to Tanzir and Prince Sulaman. Unlike me, they will be eager to hear every word.”

Karzid nodded, unsurprised. “The Emissary thought you might say that.”

“Saw that in the future, did she?” said Kylon.

The old abbot either missed the barb or chose to ignore it. “If you said that, she said to give you a message.”

“And what message is that?” said Kylon.

“The silver fire is your only salvation,” said Karzid.

Kylon said nothing.

Some of his anger must have shown on his face, because Karzid took another step back.

“I know not what those words mean,” said Karzid, spreading his hands. “If you wish to know their meaning, you must speak with the Emissary.”

“I know what they mean,” said Kylon. It was an effort to keep his voice calm. “What I want to know is how the Emissary heard those words.”

Caina must have told her. Except she couldn’t have. Caina had spoken with the Emissary several weeks before she and Kylon had met in the Ring of Cyrica, and she hadn’t been back to Silent Ash Temple since. The Emissary must have overhead them from Nasser or Laertes, both of whom had been at Rumarah. Yet Nasser and Laertes kept their secrets as well as Caina kept hers. There was no way the Emissary would have heard those words from either men.

“Damn it,” muttered Kylon. “Fine.” He got to his feet, finishing his wine with one quick swallow. “Let’s get this over with.”

Karzid led him a short distance through the camp to a tent of yellow-orange cloth. If the Emissary was trying to remain inconspicuous, Kylon thought, that bright tent was a bad way to go about it. Karzid lifted the flap for him, and Kylon ducked inside. Four of the monks waited along the canvas walls, and a wooden table filled the center of the tent.

The Emissary stood on the other side of the table, leaning upon the cane in her right hand. Her dark eyes settled upon Kylon, and again he felt the power behind her gaze strike him like a physical blow.

“Lord Kylon has come, Emissary,” said Karzid.

“Yes, I see,” said the Emissary. “Thank you, abbot. We…”

“How did you know to say that?” said Kylon.

“Because I have seen it in your future,” said the Emissary.

Kylon shook his head. “Wrong. It was in my past.”

“And your future,” said the Emissary.

“So you’ve seen my future, then,” said Kylon. “I’m sure you’ll be filled with helpful advice.”

“I have seen your possible future,” said the Emissary, “for it wraps around the futures of many others. And I have seen your path, written upon your spirit in letters of fire and blood.”

“How poetic,” said Kylon.

“I have seen the line you have woven in the tapestry of the world…”

“Destiny thread,” said Kylon.

The Emissary blinked. Likely she was not used to people interrupting her ominous little speeches. “What?”

“I’ve heard a spirit call it a destiny thread,” said Kylon. “As if we were all threads in a tapestry, our lives woven together. It was very poetic. I think you would have appreciated the spirit who told it to me.” It was the sort of glib remark Morgant would have made, but Kylon was too angry to care.

“It is a good metaphor,” said the Emissary without rancor. “Then I have looked at your destiny thread, Kylon of House Kardamnos, and I have seen the kind of man that you are.”

“And what kind of man,” said Kylon, his voice soft, “am I?”

“You are the kind of man,” said the Emissary, “who is defined by the women you have lost.”

Kylon went very still, but something inside him snarled.

“Your mother, murdered when you were a child,” said the Emissary. “Your sister, slain by her own hubris at the height of her power…”

“Stop,” said Kylon.

“Your wife, murdered by a lord of the nagataaru and its willing vessel,” said the Emissary.

“I said to stop,” said Kylon.

“Your daughter, slain within her,” said the Emissary.

Daughter? The child would have been a daughter?

“And the demonslayer herself,” said the Emissary, “the Balarigar, the bane of sorcerers and perhaps even the liberator to come. She should have died in your arms, but you cheated destiny and brought her back…”

“That’s enough,” said Kylon, his voice soft.

“And she is lost to you again,” said the Emissary, “for she faces…”

The snarling thing within Kylon snapped.

“That is enough!” he roared, and he slammed his left hand against the table. The table shattered with a loud crack, collapsing into itself, and the monks took a shocked step back. The Emissary’s dark eyes were wide with fear as she looked at his left hand.

Kylon glanced down and saw that he had called his power, that he had sheathed his hand in a gauntlet of ice harder than granite. The wooden table had been an inch thick, but he had shattered it like glass. The Emissary’s eyes remained wide, and Kylon felt her agitated emotions even through her aura of power.

Her fear was not feigned.

Kylon took a shuddering breath, releasing the sorcery of water, and the gauntlet dissolved into white mist.

“Do not,” he said, “play games with me. Not ever.”

“I am the Emissary of…”

“I do not give a damn,” said Kylon. “I am sick to death of oracles and prophecies and riddling spirits with their riddling talk, and I am not some supplicant who traveled a thousand miles to hang on your cryptic nonsense. Either tell me plainly what you want, or go spout your prophecies to Tanzir or Sulaman.”

For a moment a brittle silence filled the tent. The monks looked as if they were about to flee in terror. Kylon felt a twinge of guilt for frightening them, but he was still too angry to care.

The Emissary let out a long breath.

“She chose wisely,” said Emissary.

“What?” said Kylon.

“That valikon upon your back,” said the Emissary. “One of the last of the valikarion, dying of his wounds, appointed my predecessor the custodian of the weapon. I, in turn, made the demonslayer the custodian, free to give the valikon to whomsoever she chose. It seems she chose wisely.”

“This was a test, then,” said Kylon, still angry.

The Emissary shrugged. “I needed to know what kind of man you were, Kylon of House Kardamnos. Now I know.” She drew herself up. “Ask me what you will.”

“What?” said Kylon.

“You face a tremendous task,” said the Emissary, “for you must battle foes that have slain mighty warriors and powerful sorcerers. You will face them again, before the end, and it is in your hands that many lives rest. So ask me what you will. Knowledge may not be as direct a weapon as the valikon, but it has a keen edge nonetheless.”

“Fine,” said Kylon, pushing back his irritation. “The Balarigar. Can you tell me if she is alive?”

“I cannot,” said the Emissary, “for she is valikarion, and the valikarion are immune to all forms of arcane sight.” She hesitated. “Yet I strongly suspect that she still lives.”

“Why?” said Kylon.

“For I cannot see her ‘destiny thread’, as you put it,” said the Emissary, “but even when she stood before me in Silent Ash Temple, already countless threads pulled around hers, their courses changed by her decisions, and even more have been caught in her wake since that day. The warping has only grown stronger since. If she was slain, the threads would move into a different pattern.”

“I see,” said Kylon, but some relief went through him.

“Countless destiny threads are pulled in her wake, stormdancer,” said the Emissary, “but yours is pulled the closest of all. Yours is entangled with hers.”

“I knew that already,” said Kylon.

“Because your life is now entangled with hers,” said the Emissary, “her enemies are drawn to your path. You will face two of them. Both of them are slaves and servants of the nagataaru, and both are inhabited by powerful lords of the nagataaru.”

“The Huntress,” said Kylon. The identity of the second enemy came to him. “And Master Alchemist Rhataban.”

“The fate of uncounted lives rest in the hands of the demonslayer,” said the Emissary. “But her fate is in your hands. You must be her shield, Kylon of House Kardamnos. For if you fail, Rhataban and the Huntress will find her, and she will not escape them…and the world shall die.”

“Fine,” said Kylon. “When they show themselves, I will kill them. I’ve faced the Huntress before, but I didn’t have the valikon then.” Of course, he had barely kept Rhataban at bay during their fight even with the valikon, and if the Master Alchemist had taken the threat of Kylon’s frost sorcery more seriously, he might well have killed Kylon.

“To slay them,” said the Emissary, “you must understand them. And you must know your own destiny.”

“Explain,” said Kylon.

“Those who carry the nagataaru are slaves,” said the Emissary.

“To the nagataaru?” said Kylon.

“No. It is subtler than that,” said the Emissary. “Those who carry the nagataaru are slaves to their own darker natures. For the nagataaru hunger for pain and death the way a starving man hungers for bread. That hunger fills their hosts, twists their thoughts, and makes them slaves to it…even though they know it not.”

“What good does that do me?” said Kylon.

“If a man is a slave to his lusts, then his lusts rule him,” said the Emissary, “and they are his weakness.” She shrugged. “I know not how to exploit such weaknesses. You are the warrior, not I.”

Kylon snorted. “Some oracle.”

She offered a brief smile. “You asked for plain speaking, so do not complain when you hear it.”

“Fine,” said Kylon. “You also said I had to understand my destiny. What is my destiny?”

“The silver fire is your only salvation,” said the Emissary.

“The Surge told me that, before I was exiled from New Kyre,” said Kylon. “What does it mean?”

“What did it mean in your past?” said the Surge. “For I have seen it in your past.”

Kylon said nothing. In the Craven’s Tower, Caina had used a vial of Elixir Restorata to save his life, the silver fire erupting from him to heal his wounds. He had thought the Surge’s prophecy fulfilled, but then the Huntress had given Caina a mortal wound in Rumarah. With Samnirdamnus’s help, Kylon had used the Elixir Restorata to save Caina’s life…and the resultant explosion had wiped out the Umbarian soldiers and driven Cassander Nilas from Rumarah.

It had also transformed Caina into a valikarion.

Kylon had four vials of Elixir Restorata with him. Did the Emissary’s warning mean that he would need them to save his life once more? Or that he would somehow use it to save Caina? He could not see how. Caina was hundreds of miles away, likely on Pyramid Isle by now.

Kylon wanted to hit the table again, but he had smashed it already.

“I am sorry, Lord Kylon,” said the Emissary. “If I could tell you more, I would. The future is far cloudier than the past.”

“If the future is cloudy even to you,” said Kylon, “then what is the point of an oracle?”

“To set others upon the path they may need to walk,” said the Emissary with a crooked smile.

“Now you’re being cryptic again,” said Kylon.

“May the Living Flame light your path, Lord Kylon,” said the Emissary, “and grant you wisdom. For I fear you shall need all the aid you can find in the days ahead.”

Kylon turned away. “Better get some sleep. There might be a battle tomorrow.”

“Yes,” said the Emissary. “I know.”

Kylon looked back at her, a barbed remark on his lips, decided it wasn’t worth it, shook his head, and left the tent.

Night had fallen, the air marginally less hot. Kylon gazed up at the stars, wondering if Caina was looking at these same stars right now. He wondered if his father and mother had endured the fears and doubts that gnawed at him now, if Andromache had ever entertained similar doubts. On the other hand, Andromache had never questioned herself, which had probably gotten her killed.

And as Kylon questioned himself, a disturbing thought occurred to him.

The Emissary had said that the Huntress would come for Caina again.

Did that meant she was going after Caina right now? Had they miscalculated?

Had the Red Huntress accompanied her master to Pyramid Isle?

Chapter 13: Ambush

As the sun slipped beneath the jungle to the west, Caina glimpsed a flash of white on the curve of the beach ahead.

“Stop,” she said, keeping her voice low. Morgant and Annarah came to an immediate halt.

Caina remained motionless, peering at the horizon. Pyramid Isle was roughly circular in shape, which meant the beach and the line of the jungle moved in an uneven curve. Far ahead, just before the curve of the jungle blocked the sight of the beach, Caina glimpsed a figure clad in brilliant white.

Like the white of a Master Alchemist’s robe.

Almost certainly they had found Grand Master Callatas.

Yet next to the white-robed figure stood a shape in red and black.

Caina’s suspicions had proven accurate. Kalgri had indeed accompanied Callatas to Pyramid Isle.

“It’s them, isn’t it?” murmured Annarah. “Callatas and the Huntress.”

Caina nodded.

“We’ll have a devil of a job sneaking up on them,” said Morgant.

“Not if we go through the jungle,” said Caina.

“They aren’t walking,” said Annarah. “They’re just standing still. Why?”

“I’m not sure,” said Caina, “but it looks like they’re arguing. All the better. If they’re arguing, we have a better chance of taking them unawares.” She looked at the wall of jungle to her right. Two of the Iramisian warding stones stood at the edge of the jungle, glowing to the vision of the valikarion, and beyond she saw the sickly green haze of the necromantic aura. “Into the jungle.”

They hurried up the slope of the beach, towards the wall of the jungle. Caina risked a glance towards Callatas and Kalgri, but both distant figures remained motionless. So far, it seemed, they had not noticed Caina and the others. They ought have paid better attention to their surroundings. For that matter, Caina did not know why Kalgri had come to Pyramid Isle. The Red Huntress had a sense of self-preservation as sharp as Morgant’s dagger, and surely she realized the danger that Kharnaces posed. Perhaps Callatas had compelled her to come. Perhaps the Voice had encouraged Kalgri to come, hoping to use her to stop Callatas from walking into the waiting arms of Kharnaces.

Caina didn’t know.

All she knew was that Kalgri’s presence made their odds of victory far narrower.

She stopped at the edge of the jungle, its wet, sharp smell filling her nostrils. She saw nothing moving in the shadows beneath the trees.

“Let’s hope,” said Caina, “the baboons don’t see us.”

“Yes,” said Morgant. “It would be disappointing to have come all this way only to be torn apart by undead baboons.”

“Very,” said Caina, and she stepped past the veil of white light from the warding stones and into the jungle. A crawling tingle went over her, and nausea twisted through her as she sensed the dark power saturating the jungle. The necromantic aura radiating from the Tomb of Kharnaces seemed much stronger without the protection of the ward, and if Caina concentrated, through the vision of the valikarion she could glimpse distant point of brilliant green light.

The Conjurant Bloodcrystal itself, so powerful that the vision of the valikarion could see the thing from halfway across the island.

Yet nothing stirred as Morgant and Annarah crossed the threshold of the ward and entered the jungle with Caina.

“Let’s go,” said Caina. “Keep as quiet as you can.”

She led the way north, approaching Kalgri and Callatas.

And as they drew nearer, she heard the voices of the Red Huntress and the Grand Master raised in argument.

###

Kalgri had known Callatas for longer than anyone else in the world, and she understood him completely. Most of the time this understanding filled her with contempt, since his plan to create a new and better humanity was insipid. Yet there was also a measure of respect – the man was powerful and brilliant in his own way, and some fear colored that respect. He possessed tremendous power, and she couldn’t hurt him or in the end even disobey him. Neither could he kill her, but he could inflict a tremendous amount of pain if he put his mind to it. For all that she mocked him, she feared him enough that there were lines she would not cross.

Yet, for the first time in over a century and a half…he baffled her.

After they had finished killing off the last of the nagataaru-infested undead baboons, they had headed north along the beach. Kalgri failed to see the point. With the galley wrecked and the Immortals dead upon the beach, they were stranded here until another ship stopped at the island. If Callatas was going to work the Apotheosis and kill the world, Kalgri did not intend to spend it trapped on this miserable little island.

Callatas had started walking slower and slower, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He had always talked to himself, but now it sounded as if he was carrying on an argument.

Then, at last, he simply stopped, staring at the bone-colored hill in the distance.

“What?” said Kalgri.

“I must go to the Tomb of Kharnaces,” said Callatas.

“Then go,” said Kalgri.

Callatas hesitated, nodded…and then stopped, shaking his head.

A wave of confused anger rolled through Kalgri, followed by the alarmed hissing of the Voice. The Voice did not want Callatas to go into that jungle. It wanted Kalgri to stop him, but the nagataaru did not offer any useful suggestions on the matter. Not that the Voice ever did. If Kalgri wanted something done, she had to do it herself.

“I must go to the Tomb of Kharnaces,” said Callatas. He started to take a step forward, and then froze, trembling as if holding himself back by a colossal act of will.

“Stop prevaricating, father,” said Kalgri. “The world will crumble into dust while you stand here dithering.”

That should have gotten a response out of him. He detested it when she called him father, and being called indecisive infuriated him further. Callatas claimed that the length of time it took him to make a decision was a sign of his vast intellect and experience. Kalgri thought it a result of his habit of overthinking everything. If he had been a little more decisive, he could have dealt with Cassander Nilas long before the Umbarian magus had nearly destroyed Istarinmul.

For a moment a flicker of the old irritation went over his bearded face, and then his expression relaxed once more. Kalgri wished he had not warded himself so well. Had the Voice been able to sense his presence, perhaps she could have guessed his intentions.

As it was, she suspected that he had lost his reason. The only other times Kalgri had seen anyone act like this had been in the grips of insanity, or…

She frowned.

Or in the grips of a mind-controlling spell. Both the Imperial Magisterium and the Umbarian Order used mind-controlling spells on their enemies, but it was hard to do properly. Mind-controlling spells often resulted in total insanity as the victim’s mind broke down under the strain of competing impulses. But who could have put a mind-controlling spell upon a sorcerer as potent as the Grand Master? Kharnaces, perhaps, but Callatas had not been here for century and a half. Or perhaps the Staff and Seal had been trapped, guarded by a spell that drove whoever wielded them to insanity. Though Caina and Nasser Glasshand both had carried the regalia, and neither Caina nor Nasser seemed to have gone insane.

“Yes,” said Callatas, his voice flat. “I must come to the Tomb of Kharnaces.”

“Then go,” said Kalgri. The Voice screamed in fury at the thought.

“Yes,” said Callatas in that strange voice. “You are right.”

He took a step forward, then another, but with hesitant, jerky movements. It made Kalgri think of corsairs forcing a man to walk the plank into shark-infested waters.

Strange.

She had thought that Callatas would unleash the Apotheosis at once after she led him to the Staff and Seal. Instead he had gone to Pyramid Isle with such haste that he had not even cared when their galley had foundered upon the reef.

Still, in the end, she did not care. She did not care about Callatas, and she did not really care about his Apotheosis. She only cared about killing as many people as possible, about gorging herself upon their pain and torment and deaths, about killing without end. The Apotheosis had seemed like the best way to do that.

Yet if Callatas got himself killed here…

Kalgri decided to wait and watch. Maybe Callatas would destroy himself the way that Cassander had destroyed himself…

No. That wasn’t right. Cassander hadn’t destroyed himself. Caina and Kylon had killed him.

Odd. Why should she think about them now? Their corpses likely lay beneath several tons of sand in Istarinmul, and even if they had survived, there was no way they could have followed Callatas and Kalgri to Pyramid Isle.

Yet, for some reason, her instincts screamed a warning, and Kalgri took several steps back, watching Callatas as he staggered towards the jungle.

###

Morgant crouched next to Caina and Annarah in the trees, watching the Grand Master and the Red Huntress.

The last time Morgant had actually seen the Grand Master had been several decades ago, when Callatas had hired him to paint a mural glorifying the destruction of Iramis in the Tarshahzon Gardens. Of course, Callatas had thought Morgant was Markaine of Caer Marist, famed master painter. He hadn’t recognized Morgant as the assassin he had hired to kill Annarah and bring him the relics of Iramis.

Callatas had not changed. He still looked ascetic, scholarly, with a slump to his shoulders and a perpetually sour look on his lined face. The Star of Iramis, a fist-sized gem of blue crystal, rested against his chest, and his right hand held the silvery Staff of Iramis and wore the Seal of Iramis with its carved blue stone. The Grand Master stood a few yards from the edge of the jungle, twitching and jerking like a man in the grip of a seizure.

The Red Huntress waited behind him, a slim, pretty woman clad in crimson armor of chain mail and leather, a dark cloak hanging from her shoulders. She had blue eyes and blond hair, and looked so much like Caina that the two women could have been sisters. Morgant suspected that was a twisted joke on the part of the nagataaru that inhabited the Huntress, that it had rebuilt her with the features of the woman who had defeated her at Silent Ash Temple.

It was actually kind of funny, though Morgant could just imagine Annarah’s sigh if he said that aloud. Plus, hiding a few yards from the most powerful sorcerer and the deadliest assassin in Istarinmul was not the time for jokes.

Callatas staggered, step by slow step, towards the jungle. Strange spasms went over his expression. One moment his face was slack and impassive, the next confused and angry. Then he shook his head, and the cycle started all over again. Had Morgant not known better, he would have thought the Grand Master was drunk, or had just taken a sharp blow to the head. Clearly Callatas was trying to fight off the compulsion, and just as clearly he was failing. Step by step, he was moving towards the jungle. Perhaps Kharnaces could not claim him until he passed the circle of warding stones and entered the jungle proper.

But as the Grand Master moved closer, that meant he was standing in the shadows of the trees.

Caina pointed at one of the trees. Morgant didn’t know what kind of tree it was, save that it was tall and had a lot of spiky-looking green leaves. He supposed that it if was cut down and shipped to Istarinmul, the glossy dark wood would fetch a high price so it could be turned into a table or something.

Still, it looked heavy and solid…and Callatas was standing right underneath it. Morgant knew that the Grand Master had warded himself against steel weapons and arcane attack. He did not know if the Grand Master had warded himself against a giant damned tree falling upon his head.

Time to find out!

Morgant glided forward. The wind and the constant rustling of the leaves ought to mask any idle noise, but he did not want to take the chance that the Huntress would hear anything. He leveled his black dagger and started sawing at the base of the tree. The tree was thick enough and hard enough that it should have taken a team of strong men wielding axes to bring it down, but Morgant’s enspelled dagger bit into the wood with ease.

Of course, there was a lot of tree, and Morgant’s blade was only so long. He started to dig a trench into the trunk, working as fast and as silently as he could manage. The wood turned black and charred where the blade touched it, and the gem upon the dagger’s pommel started to glow as it sucked up the friction of the cutting. Caina moved to the left side of the tree in silence, the ghostsilver dagger ready in her hand, her eyes fixed upon Callatas. Annarah moved to the right side, her free hand opening and closing as pale white fire started to glimmer around her fingers, her eyes upon the Huntress. As a loremaster of Iramis, she had any number of spells that could harm or perhaps even destroy a nagataaru, though Morgant did not know if she was powerful enough to deal with someone as potent as the Huntress.

He supposed they were about to find that out as well.

Morgant pulled his dagger from the smoking trench in the tree, the smell of burned wood filling his nostrils. The tree swayed precariously upon the remaining sliver of the trunk. Callatas had managed to move another yard closer to the jungle, while the Huntress remained motionless further down the beach, her black cloak stirring around her.

Morgant glanced at Caina. She gave him a hard nod, her fingers tightening against the ghostsilver dagger.

It was grimly amusing. A lot of people had tried to kill Callatas over the last century and a half, and all of them had failed. Mighty sorcerers, powerful lords, and dozens of assassins had come for him, and he had crushed them all. Now Morgant and Caina and Annarah were going to try to assassinate the Grand Master with a tree and a dagger.

Well, it wasn’t as if Morgant had any better ideas.

He slammed his shoulder against the tree, and it toppled forward with a crackling noise.

###

Kalgri watched Callatas totter towards the jungle. She let out an aggravated breath, shaking her head with annoyance, and she did, something strange caught her attention.

She smelled…wood smoke?

But that was impossible. The jungle was too damp to burn. And it didn’t smell like a forest fire. It smelled like someone was making charcoal. But this wretched island was supposed to be uninhabited. Where was…

A loud cracking noise came from the jungle, and one of the trees fell right towards the Grand Master. Callatas, wrapped in his internal debate, didn’t even seem to notice the damned tree falling towards his skull.

“Callatas!” shouted Kalgri.

The Grand Master jerked, saw the tree coming, and tried to dodge. Instead of landing upon his head, the tree struck his right shoulder. There was a brilliant flash of blue light as his defensive wards flared to life, and the tree ripped in half as if it had been struck by a lightning bolt. Yet the Grand Master’s wards had been designed to deflect swords and spears and arrows and spells, and Kalgri doubted they had been cast to deflect that much weight at once. In the instant before the defensive spells ripped the tree in half, it clipped his shoulder, and Kalgri heard the snap of bone. Callatas let out a started yelp and spun to the side, his gray eyes wide, and went to one knee, leaning upon the Staff of Iramis for balance.

It happened so fast that even the Voice was shocked into silence.

Kalgri’s first thought was amused. Of all the trees in the jungle, what were the odds that one would land upon Callatas?

Her second thought was that it was too improbable a coincidence.

Then Caina Amalas burst from the trees, sprinting towards the stunned Grand Master, a ghostsilver dagger glinting in her hand.

For a moment sheer shock froze Kalgri’s mind.

It was impossible. It was utterly impossible. Caina was dead, her corpse buried beneath tons of sand in the Alqaarin Quarter. Even if she had somehow survived, there was no way she could have followed Callatas and Kalgri here. For that matter, she couldn’t have known where Callatas and Kalgri were going.

Then the Voice screamed a warning, and Kalgri surged forward. Caina had a ghostsilver dagger. That weapon could penetrate Callatas’s weakened wards and kill him. And if the Grand Master died, then the Apotheosis died with him.

Kalgri would not allow that. The Apotheosis would kill the world, and to do that she first had to kill Caina Amalas, ridding herself of the troublesome Balarigar once and for…

A blast of white fire erupted from the jungle, and only the reflexes granted by the Voice let Kalgri dodge. The spell ripped across her left side, and pain exploded through her, bringing her charge to a halt.

###

Caina sprinted forward as Kalgri stumbled, snarling in fury.

Annarah emerged from the jungle, her pyrikon returned to its staff form, and cast another spell. Another burst of white fire erupted from the staff, and Kalgri dodged the spell. Caina caught a glimpse of Kalgri’s expression, and saw that the left side of the Huntress’s face was red and black with burns. Annarah’s spells could not harm living mortals, but Kalgri had taken a nagataaru into her flesh, and was vulnerable to the power of the Iramisian loremasters.

Kalgri shot towards Annarah in a blur, drawing a scimitar and a dagger from her belt. Caina wanted to help Annarah, but she dared not slow.

Grand Master Callatas still knelt, dazed. He was still distracted from the impact of the tree, and if Caina could reach him before he recovered…

She ran faster, raising the ghostsilver dagger over her head, and Callatas looked at her.

###

Morgant raced from the jungle as Caina charged at Callatas and the Huntress charged at Annarah. The pyrikon staff blazed with white fire in Annarah’s hand as she worked another spell, shouting the Words of Lore, but the Huntress was too fast. Her burned face snarled, her white teeth bared in a rictus of fury, and she raised her scimitar and dagger for the kill.

Morgant got there first.

He flicked his black dagger, sweeping it up, and the Huntress twisted with blurring speed, bringing her scimitar slashing for his face. Morgant parried with the black dagger, and the blade cut off the scimitar’s blade at the hilt. She stumbled, and Morgant slashed his crimson scimitar. The Huntress reacted with perfect precision, her dagger deflecting his sword.

That gave Morgant the opening he needed to stab, and the tip of the black dagger bit into the Huntress’s right forearm. At his command, the dagger released the stored heat it had soaked up from cutting down the massive tree.

The Huntress saw the danger coming. Most of Morgant’s foes never did. She jerked back, leaping a half-dozen yards backwards in a single bound, and broke the contact before the dagger could dump the entirety of the heat into her. It should have ignited her like a torch, but instead her right arm caught fire, burning beneath the armor. The Huntress hit the sand and rolled, extinguishing the flames, and sprang back to her feet. The smell of burned flesh filled Morgant’s nostrils, but the injuries did not slow the Huntress at all.

Annarah cast another spell, and again the Huntress dodged. In the same motion she drew a ghostsilver short sword from her belt and charged, her burned face twisted with fury, her blue eyes flickering with shadow and purple flame.

Morgant fought for his life.

###

Callatas saw Caina, and for the first time the Grand Master seemed to recognize his danger.

He reacted with astonishing speed.

His uninjured arm came up, and to the vision of the valikarion his fingers blazed with power. Since becoming a valikarion, Caina had seen Kylon and Annarah and Claudia and several other sorcerers cast spells, and she knew how long it took for them to gather arcane power.

Callatas gathered more power than all of them combined in a single heartbeat.

Gray light burned around his hand, and Caina knew that he had worked a spell of psychokinetic force, one that would hit her with enough force to shatter every bone in her body. At the last minute, Caina adjusted her aim, dodging under the Grand Master’s hand. Callatas snarled something and released his spell, and Caina slashed the ghostsilver dagger.

She missed his throat or his chest, and instead ripped the dagger along the side of his outstretched left arm. The dagger’s hilt grew painfully hot as it cut through his warding spells, and it carved a smoking gash inside his left forearm. Callatas screamed in pain, rocking backwards to land on his rump, and his spell missed Caina. It only clipped her, but it was still like getting grazed by a stone flung from a siege engine. Pain erupted through her entire left side, spinning her in the air, and Caina landed hard upon her back, the breath erupting from her lungs.

She heaved herself back to her feet as white fire exploded along the beach, as Kalgri blurred towards Morgant, steel ringing on steel. Callatas tried to rise, pushing against the sand, but with his broken right shoulder and gashed left arm, a spasm of pain went through him, and he fell with a cry. Purple fire and shadow swirled in his eyes, and Caina saw the wound upon his forearm start to shrink. The nagataaru that inhabited him, perhaps Kotuluk Iblis himself if Samnirdamnus was right, was beginning to heal his wounds.

Caina rushed towards him, and Callatas’s lips bared in a snarl. More gray light flared around his left arm, and Caina jumped towards him, raising the dagger. Callatas was fast, but even his sorcery was not faster than gravity itself, and she slammed into him. The awful tingle of his defensive wards washed over her, sorcery potent enough to keep her from touching him, but those wards were useless against her ghostsilver dagger.

At the last minute Callatas swept the Staff of Iramis before him. It was a clumsy, feeble blow, but it was enough to deflect Caina’s strike, and the stab that would have opened his throat instead gashed his broken shoulder, slicing through his enspelled robes to bite into the flesh beneath.

Callatas screamed, and the spell of psychokinetic force he had gathered collapsed, the power rushing out from him as it unraveled.

Yet some of the power drained into the Staff of Iramis, which shone with grayish-white light as the ancient relic activated.

###

Morgant realized that he was about to die.

The Huntress came at him like a storm, the steel dagger and the ghostsilver short sword a blur. He had always wondered what his black dagger could do against a ghostsilver blade, and it turned out that a ghostsilver weapon could block his dagger’s edge. The Huntress used her ghostsilver sword to deflect his dagger, her own dagger blocking and parrying his crimson scimitar.

She was getting faster, the burns on her face and arm healing. As her wounds healed, Morgant supposed that gave her nagataaru more power to make her faster and stronger. She was already faster and stronger than he was, stronger than any normal human, and only his vast experience had kept him untouched so far.

That, and the Huntress’s need to avoid Annarah’s spells. Every time Annarah flung a shaft of white fire, the Red Huntress had to disengage, dodging the wash of white flame. That gave Morgant some breathing room, but not much. Once the Huntress recovered, she was going to kill Morgant, and then Annarah.

Pity, that. Well, Morgant had always supposed that he was going to get killed while keeping his word, and it looked like that was going to happen. It…

A thunderclap rang out, and gray light shone from the beach.

Morgant risked a glance to the side, keeping one eye upon the Huntress, but the nagataaru-infested woman looked just as surprised. He glimpsed Caina and Callatas struggling to seize the Staff of Iramis, Callatas bleeding from several wounds on his shoulder and arm. The Staff of Iramis shone with gray light between them, and gray mist erupted from the Staff, forming into something that looked like…

A rift, a tear in the air itself.

It looked a great deal like the Mirror of Worlds that Morgant had seen in the cellar of the Craven’s Tower, or the gate to the netherworld in the Hall of Torments in the Inferno.

The Staff had just opened a rift to the netherworld.

A gale wind howled over the beach, screaming towards the rift. Morgant staggered, trying to keep his balance, and the Huntress stepped back, her black cloak flapping about her. Caina and Callatas were closer, and both tumbled into the rift. For an instant Morgant glimpsed the colorless grass and the writhing black sky of the netherworld, and then the rift snapped shut with another thunderclap, the wind subsiding.

For a moment the only sound was the rustling of the leaves.

“Hell,” muttered Morgant, keeping his weapons raised. He watched the Huntress, but she seemed just as surprised. “What just happened?”

“Did they kill each other?” said the Huntress, looking back and forth between Morgant and where Caina and Callatas had been.

“No,” said Annarah, her voice trembling a little. A sheen of sweat glittered upon her face. The spells she had been throwing at the Huntress must have been exhausting. “No. The power of the Seal of Iramis permits the bearer to command spirits. The power of the Staff of Iramis permits the bearer to summon spirits from the netherworld, and to summon spirits…”

“It has to open the way for the spirits,” finished Morgant.

“I think Callatas activated the Staff in error, and it pulled them into the netherworld,” said Annarah.

The Huntress let out a low, hard laugh. “Idiot.” The burns from Annarah’s spell had vanished from her face, and he suspected the burn on her arm was healed as well. She looked…sharper now, as if she had gone a long time without eating. If her nagataaru fed on life force, it was likely hungry now.

She turned, her eyes fixed on Morgant and Annarah.

“Well,” said the Huntress at last. “Whatever shall we do with ourselves now?”

“Can we follow them?” said Morgant.

“Yes,” said Annarah, drawing a deep breath. “I can open the way to the netherworld. But it will take at least a day, and it…may be too late already. Their fight may have been decided already.”

“What do you mean?” said Morgant.

“Time flows differently in the netherworld,” said Annarah. “For me, it seemed as if only a few moments passed since we parted in the Hall of Torments. For you, a century and a half passed. By the time I open a gate to the netherworld, the battle shall already have been decided.”

“Then the Balarigar is dead,” said the Huntress with a sneer. “Callatas will dispose of her.”

“I don’t know,” said Morgant. “You failed to dispose of her, after all.”

The Huntress sneered. “The taunts of a bitter old man.”

“Of course I am! Are we stating the obvious now?” said Morgant. He pointed his scimitar at her. “Bitter old woman! The sky is blue! The jungle is green!” He rolled his aching shoulders. “Shall we get back to killing each other?”

He wasn’t sure if he could take her, even with Annarah’s help. Morgant might be able to cut her down with the black dagger, and Annarah might be able to slow her with the Words of Lore. Or, more likely, the Huntress would kill them both and wait for Caina or Callatas to emerge from the netherworld.

“We could,” said the Huntress, “but I’m only here because of that old fool Callatas, and you two are only here because of the madwoman who calls herself the Balarigar.”

“She doesn’t call herself the Balarigar,” said Morgant. “She gets rather irritated by it.”

“Why kill each other?” said the Huntress. “Let us wait to see what happens.”

Morgant grinned. “You’re not sure you can take us.”

The Huntress shrugged, her slim shoulders twitching beneath the red armor. “No more than you are certain you can take me. Don’t you hate fair fights? I’ve never been fond of them.”

“So what do you propose?” said Annarah. “Bearing in mind that your word means nothing.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” said Huntress. “But mutual need is more important than a promise. Let us have a truce until either Caina or Callatas returns.” She giggled, a reedy, unsteady sound more suitable for a coquettish girl than an ancient assassin. “Given how time flows in the netherworld, we should know the results of their duel within moments.”

“What happens then?” said Annarah, her pyrikon staff still leveled at the Huntress.

The Huntress shrugged again. “If Callatas returns, he’ll kill you both. If Caina returns, which is unlikely, then I’ll kill all three of you. And if they kill each other…well, there’s no reason to continue our conflict, is there?”

“Caina will prevail,” said Annarah.

“Oh, how very touching,” said the Huntress. “Such childlike faith in a liar and a spy and a murderess. You…”

“Do shut up,” said Morgant, and the Huntress’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard this kind of speech before. She might be a liar and a spy and a murderess, but so are you, and she’s just better at it than you are. So.” He gestured with his weapons. “We accept your truce. Once Caina returns, we can kill you then. Anyway, a woman of your advanced years needs a moment to catch her breath, and I am nothing if not courteous.”

For a moment the Huntress was motionless, her head tilted to the side, purple fire and shadow flashing in her eyes. Morgant had seen that expression before, and he knew that she was listening to her pet nagataaru…or, depending on how you looked at it, her nagataaru was issuing instructions to its pet human.

She looked so much like a blond version of Caina that it was a little unsettling to see that expression of malicious anger upon her face. Fortunately Morgant was well-accustomed to unsettling situations.

“Very well,” said the Huntress at last. She let out another of those reedy giggles. “Whatever shall we talk about to pass the time?”

Chapter 14: Valikarion

Gray mist swallowed Caina, and it felt as if she was falling thousands of miles through an endless void filled with rippling mist

Yet the sensation lasted only a second.

Caina hit the ground, rolled, and came to one knee, the ghostsilver dagger still clutched in her right fist, some of Callatas’s blood upon the blade. A few yards away hovered the strange rift of gray light and mist, and even as she looked, it vanished with a flash. There was no wind, but Caina’s shadow-cloak rippled around her, as if caught in an unseen wind, and colorless gray grass rustled around her legs.

Dread stabbed through Caina.

She knew where she was. She had been here several times before, and every single visit had nearly ended in disaster.

Caina was in the netherworld, the realm of spirits, the world beyond the material world.

A gray, bleak plain stretched away in all directions as far as she could see, covered with colorless, hip-high grasses that rippled in the nonexistent wind. Writhing black clouds covered the sky overhead, flowing over the plain with surreal, blinding speed. From time to time arcs of green or red lightning leapt from cloud to cloud, silent and brilliant. Between the ground and the clouds floated strange things – upside-down, leafless trees, their roots like tentacles, statues of pale or crimson stone, walls and doors or stairs that went nowhere, fountains and arches.

Beyond them all, beyond even the mantle of black clouds, Caina saw the ghostly echo of Iramis, a beautiful city with towers of white and gold, brilliant in the sunlight of a long-distant day. When Callatas had lifted the Star of Iramis and burned the city, the spell had been so powerful that it cast an echo into the netherworld, an echo that lingered even after a century and a half. Over the ghostly image of Iramis she saw a faint crack of golden light, an echo of the rift the Moroaica had carved into the netherworld. Caina had thought the rift would fade with time, but Cassander Nilas had ripped it open during his plan to destroy Istarinmul.

All of this Caina had seen before. She had visited the netherworld often, and she was more familiar with it than she would wish.

Yet Caina had never seen the netherworld through the eyes of a valikarion, and for a moment she froze with terror and amazement.

Power blazed around her like an inferno.

She didn’t truly understand the nature of the netherworld. Perhaps no one did. Caina had known that arcane power drained from the netherworld and into the mortal world, but that had been an intellectual fact, one that she had not fully grasped.

Now, with the vision of the valikarion blazing inside of her skull, she could barely comprehend it.

To her eyes of flesh, the netherworld looked the same as it always had. To the vision of the valikarion, the netherworld had been wrought from sheets of fire and lightning and storm. Everything around her had been fashioned of sorcerous power, so bright that it sent ribbons of pain through her head. Already she saw some of the currents of power altering around her, reacting to her presence. The netherworld was psychomorphic – it would react to her thoughts, molding itself around her memory the longer she stayed here, which would also draw the attention of the various malicious spirits that preyed upon mortals.

Much like the nagataaru.

Caina staggered to her feet, the ghostsilver dagger burning white in her hand, the currents of power rippling around her. The Staff of Iramis, she had learned, had the power to call spirits from the netherworld. Apparently that included the ability to open gates from the mortal world. Callatas’s power had activated the Staff, which had likely brought them both here.

She spun, and saw Callatas standing thirty yards away.

In the mortal world, the vision of the valikarion had seen the power of the wards wrapped around Callatas, the spells woven into his robes, and the mighty strength of the Staff and the Seal and the Star of Iramis. Here, with the vision so much sharper, the force of his spells shone like rivers of molten metal.

More, she saw the shadow within him.

It was huge, colossal, larger than the mountains rising over the Imperial Citadel in Malarae, burning like the volcanoes in the Saddaic provinces. Caina had seen that shadow before, first when she had entered the netherworld while escaping Callatas’s Maze and again when rescuing Annarah from the nagataaru.

It was the terrible shadow of Kotuluk Iblis, the lord of the nagataaru. The Voice might have inhabited Kalgri and the Harbinger resided in the undead flesh of Kharnaces, but Kotuluk Iblis himself possessed the mind of Grand Master Callatas.

“The Balarigar,” spat Callatas.

Caina took a step closer, and Callatas lifted his hand, tremendous amounts of sorcerous power swirling around him. She had caught him off-guard on the beach as he struggled against Kharnaces’s compulsion, but now she had his full attention.

The netherworld flickered around her, shifting from a plain to the courtyard of Ulvan’s palace, where Caina had first seen Callatas after coming to Istarinmul. Usually it took longer for the netherworld to react to her thoughts, but she saw the currents of power lashing around her, reacting to her presence. Perhaps they reacted more violently since she had become a valikarion.

“How has someone like you caused me so much trouble?” said Callatas. “One woman without sorcery, and you have caused me more difficulty than anyone else in the last century and a half.” He gave a disdainful sneer. “How did Ricimer and Anburj and Kalgri and Rolukhan and Cassander all fail to stop you?”

“Listen to me,” said Caina. “You’re not in control of yourself. Kharnaces put a compulsion upon your mind…”

“Ah, that was it,” snarled Callatas, pointing at her. “Those fools let you talk. I shall not make the same mistake.”

He gestured, and the gray light exploded from his hand into a wall of invisible force forty feet across and forty high, moving so quickly and so powerfully that the psychokinetic blast would likely reduce her body to bloody mist. Caina had avoided spells like that a dozen times, but she saw no way to avoid this wall of force.

But as she thought of them, the netherworld flickered and blurred, matching her memories of those battles in Malarae and Rasadda and Marsis and a dozen other places. The netherworld changed a dozen times in a single heartbeat, and Caina had never seen it change so quickly.

The netherworld had always been psychomorphic.

But perhaps now that Caina was a valikarion, she could see it happening.

And since she could see it happening, could she control it?

The wall of Callatas’s spell hurtled towards her, and Caina concentrated as hard as she could, thinking of shields and towers and fortresses…

And the netherworld reshaped itself to her will.

A wall of dark iron erupted from the ground before her, a thousand feet tall and a thousand wide, and Callatas’s spell slammed into it. The wall rang like a titanic bell, and the vast expanse of iron unraveled into mist and vanished. Callatas gaped at her, his eyes wide with astonishment, but his astonishment did not last long, and he started casting another spell. Golden fire blazed around his hand, power doubling and redoubling. It was a spell of transmutation, one she had seen him use before. It would transform her into a crystalline statue, killing her in the process, and the amount of power he had called would be sufficient to turn her and the ground for ten yards in all directions to glittering crystal.

Caina saw the currents of sorcerous force gathering around his fingers, but she also saw the flows of power rippling through the netherworld. They were reacting to Callatas’s presence, but they were also reacting far more violently to Caina’s presence, and with a shock she realized they were reacting to her because she could see them. She had called that wall of iron into existence.

Golden fire burst from Callatas’s hand, lancing towards her.

Just how fast could Caina reshape the netherworld?

She supposed it depended on what she could imagine, and she could imagine a lot.

The fire blazed towards her, and Caina concentrated. The ground heaved beneath her feet, and a tall hill rose up beneath Caina, the earth bunching up like a wadded blanket. The transmutation spell struck the hill, and the entire thing transformed into crystal. But the crystal was slippery, and Caina threw herself forward. She hurtled down the slope of the hill as if it was a greased chute, the ghostsilver dagger a white torch in her hand, and hit the ground running. Callatas was casting another spell, but his eyes widened as she hurtled towards him, and he changed his spell. The flow of power burst from his hand and into the ground, and a chasm yawned at Caina’s feet, the gray, colorless plain splitting in two. Caina caught her balance and came to a stop as the chasm froze in place, thirty yards across, Callatas on the other side.

The Grand Master began casting another spell, grayish-white light burning around his hands, the Staff of Iramis glowing in his hands. He was reactivating the Staff, preparing to use its power to open the way back to the mortal world. No doubt he would leave Caina behind to be killed by the nagataaru or the phobomorphic spirits or the ifriti or whatever else caught up to her first.

It was the most efficient way of dealing with her. Caina had no way back to the mortal world, no way of escaping the netherworld without the Staff. Leaving her behind would be an easy way for Callatas to kill her without exposing himself to risk.

Yet as Callatas cast his spell, Caina understood.

She could control the netherworld more easily than he could.

When the Alchemist Sinan had sent her into the netherworld, Caina had been able to reshape the psychomorphic terrain, calling the maze of Malarae’s dockside alleys into existence to confuse the phobomorphic spirits. Now that she was a valikarion, it seemed she could reshape the terrain with far less effort. Callatas could do the same…but he had required a spell to create his chasm. He needed to control the psychomorphic terrain through his spells. Caina could control the netherworld through thought alone.

Just how far could she reshape the terrain?

It was time to find out.

Callatas continued his spell, the Staff glowing brighter, and Caina concentrated. The netherworld rippled around her, and a bolt of pain went through her head, but the chasm shrank like a man slamming a book closed. It vanished in an instant, and Caina sprinted forward, drawing back the ghostsilver dagger to strike at Callatas.

The Grand Master whirled again and released his spell, throwing another wall of invisible force at Caina, but to the vision of valikarion his attack shone with power. Once again she imagined a wall, a fortified wall studded with bastions like the ancient wall that encircled Istarinmul, and it erupted from the ground beneath Caina, the earth reshaping itself to match her thoughts. Callatas’s spell slammed into the wall, and it shattered into mist beneath Caina’s boots, but she was already running, and she leaped from the ramparts as the wall vanished. She soared through the air a hundred feet over the ground, but she focused her will, and the ground erupted, rising in a plateau to meet her, and Caina’s leap turned into a gentle fall of a few feet.

The plateau also lifted Callatas, and the Grand Master stumbled as he caught his balance. Caina slashed the dagger at him, and Callatas whipped the Staff of Iramis up to deflect. The block was clumsy, and Caina could tell that the Grand Master had not used a physical weapon in a long time. Yet the gash the ghostsilver dagger had carved into his forearm had almost healed, and his shoulder was no longer dislocated.

She had to kill him and take the Staff. It was the only way to stop him, to stop both the Apotheosis and Kharnaces’s plans. The Staff was the only way she had back to the mortal world.

The only way she had to see Kylon again.

Callatas summoned power, but Caina slashed again, forcing the old man to abandon his spell and block again. The ghostsilver dagger clanged off the staff, and Caina rolled her wrist, flicking the dagger along the outside of Callatas’s right arm. Again the blade tore through his wards, opening a smoking gash upon his skin. Callatas screamed in pain and rage and Caina lunged at him, hoping to grab his arm and pull him onto the dagger.

Yet her fingers rebounded from his arm with a flash of light, a jolt of pain stabbing up her arm and into her shoulder. His wards would not allow her to touch him. Caina stumbled, and Callatas caught his breath, flinging out his arms with a shout. His spell sent psychokinetic force blasting from him in all directions. The spell did not last long, but it was enough to strike Caina and send her spinning through the air as if she had been struck by a giant pillow. She managed to concentrate upon the ground, making it softer than it would have been, and the landing that would have killed her instead only knocked the wind from her lungs.

Caina scrambled back to her feet as Callatas cast another spell.

His power reshaped the terrain of the netherworld like a lump of clay squeezed in a potter’s fist. The plain vanished beneath Caina’s boots, replaced by gleaming white flagstones. Walls erupted around her, enclosing her in a vast courtyard. Domes and towers rose overhead, brilliant and shining. To her left she saw a familiar garden and a white tower, the tower that marked the entrance to Callatas’s Maze and laboratory.

Callatas’s spell had created a perfect replica of his palace in Istarinmul.

Caina turned and saw the Grand Master at the far end of the courtyard, standing before the massive double doors to the palace proper. Callatas cast a spell, and a wall of brilliant golden flame erupted from him, spreading in a semicircle across the courtyard. Everything it touched transmuted into shining blue crystal, and the wall of transmuting fire rushed towards Caina. As it did, Callatas flung open the double doors to his palace.

Callatas had likely expected Caina to flee or dodge, but instead she sprinted towards the fire, the shadow-cloak streaming behind her like a dark banner. The golden fire rose before her, and Caina concentrated. Part of the courtyard heaved, the stone flowing up like mercury, and it rose in a narrow arch before Caina, the fire blazing above the arch. She flung herself through the arch, still concentrating, and the double doors to the palace transformed into towering slabs of stone, freezing in place as Callatas tugged at them. The Grand Master snarled in rage, casting another spell as Caina ran at him. Another deadly lance of invisible psychokinetic force burst from his hand, and Caina concentrated again. Part of the courtyard reshaped itself into one of the Iramisian warding stones she had seen upon the beach, and the psychokinetic burst shattered against it.

Yet as it did a wave of agony rolled through Caina’s skull, and she stumbled for half a step. Her headache had been growing worse, and now it felt as if she had hot nails jammed into her temples. Reshaping the psychomorphic terrain so quickly seemed to have a steep physical cost, one that was building up. It felt almost like the pain in her back and shoulders if she tried to lift something too heavy, the sinews and muscles straining beyond their capacity. Perhaps Caina’s mind was unused to the effort of so quickly reshaping the terrain. If she pushed too hard and too fast…

It didn’t matter. Pushing too hard might kill her. Failing to push too hard would almost certainly let Callatas kill her.

Caina grabbed the warding stone, using it as a pivot to change direction. She swung around the edge of the stone, hurtling towards Callatas, slashing the ghostsilver dagger. The Grand Master reeled back, starting a spell as he did, and this time the dagger’s tip nicked his jaw. Callatas hissed in pain, but continued his spell, and Caina dodged against the palace’s wall as psychokinetic force erupted from the Grand Master’s hands.

But this time, the spell was not aimed at Caina.

The Grand Master’s will sent him hurtling backwards across the courtyard, his bloodstained white robes and cloak billowing around him like wings. He landed on the outer wall of the courtyard. Callatas began another spell, and Caina sprinted towards him, concentrating as she ran. Pain flared through her head, but she pulled the wall towards her, even as she made a stone ramp rise from the courtyard.

Callatas finished his spell, but this time the power flowed to the Seal upon his finger, the carved stone in the ring blazing with force.

“Aid me!” thundered Callatas. “By the power of the Seal, I summon you! By the power of the Seal, I bind you! By the power of the Seal, I compel you!” He pointed at Caina, the Seal’s carved stone shining with blue light. “Slay the Balarigar! By the power of the Seal, by the command of Callatas, by the will of Kotuluk Iblis, slay the Balarigar!”

Caina was halfway up the ramp, and dozens of billowing black shadows erupted from the courtyard. They seemed to take the shape of hooded creatures, their eyes blazing with purple fire. They swept back and forth through the courtyard, moving with the speed of circling birds, and Caina skidded to a halt as one passed a few feet in front of her.

They were nagataaru spirits, and Callatas had summoned hundreds of them, binding them with the Seal’s power. Caina gripped her ghostsilver dagger and held it out before her, the blade shining with white fire, but it seemed a small weapon to use against hundreds of nagataaru. They could swarm over her like rats…

Yet the nagataaru continued sweeping back and forth…and Caina realized they could not see her.

She was valikarion. Spirits could not perceive her, and it seemed that ability functioned in the netherworld as well. Yet even as the realization came to her, she saw that the nagataaru were sweeping through the courtyard in a systematic way. They couldn’t see her, but they knew that she was there, and once they found her…

A nagataaru brushed her, pain shooting up her left arm. The spirit froze, shadows swirling around it like a cloak, and it let out a keening scream. Caina slashed at the nagataaru with the ghostsilver dagger, and the spirit reeled back, but it was too late. The other nagataaru swarmed towards her, hundreds of them, and she saw Callatas casting a spell from the outer wall. If the nagataaru didn’t finish her, whatever spell Callatas cast would…

White light flashed from Caina’s left wrist.

Her ghostsilver pyrikon unfolded itself, swelling into a towering warrior armored from head to foot in plate armor, a glowing sword in its right fist and a massive shield upon its left arm. The pyrikon attacked, sword rising and falling, and the nagataaru fell back.

“Defend!” thundered the pyrikon, its voice like the blast of a trumpet. “Defend the liberator! To arms, my kindred! Defend the liberator!”

Dozens of balls of white light shot across the courtyard, blurring across Caina’s vision like a rain of falling stars. The glowing spheres expanded into more armored warriors, and soon scores of pyrikon spirits contended against the nagataaru, continuing their endless, eternal war. Callatas finished his spell, golden fire bursting from his hand, and Caina focused her mind upon the stone ramp beneath her feet. It shrank and flattened, plunging her back to the courtyard, and Callatas’s spell missed by mere inches.

Caina stumbled as a searing bolt of pain shot through her head, and she felt something wet touch her upper lip.

Her nose was bleeding. She had a brief vision of her brain dissolving into mush from the effort of changing the terrain again and again.

Gray light flared around the outer wall as Callatas began yet another spell. The nagataaru might not have been able to see her, but Callatas had no trouble, and he could throw spell after spell until he killed her.

But what if he couldn’t see her? She had been a Ghost nightfighter long before she had become a valikarion, and she preferred to strike from shadows and stealth.

Perhaps she could do the same here.

Caina concentrated as hard as she could, focusing upon the replica of the palace that Callatas had pulled into existence. Pain flooded her skull, and for an awful instant it felt as if she had thrust her head into a blacksmith’s fire.

Yet the netherworld reformed itself around her.

The palace vanished, replaced by the maze of warehouses and alleys that surrounded the harbor in the Imperial capital of Malarae. Countless warehouses of weathered brick rose around Caina, roofed in crumbling red tiles. Fog flooded through the alleys. Thick fogs often rolled into Malarae off the Bay of Empire, and sometimes it was hard to see more than a dozen feet in any direction in the hazy gloom.

Callatas could not see Caina in the gloomy maze of the docks, and she sprinted forward in silence.

He could not see her…but she could see him.

For not even the fogs of Malarae could conceal the Staff and the Seal and the Star of Iramis from the vision of the valikarion. She saw the glow of the relics, saw the glow right through the walls of brick and the mist and the pyrikon spirits battling against the nagataaru.

Callatas was not far away. The other side of the warehouse, Caina thought.

She took a step forward…and a wave of searing pain accompanied by dizziness rolled through her head, and she had to grab at a rough brick wall to stay upright. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, forcing the pain back, forcing herself to keep going. Power flared around Callatas, and the glow of the Staff of Iramis brightened. He was preparing to use the Staff to return to the mortal world and leave her here to die.

No. This was going to end, here and now.

The warehouse was only one floor high, and Caina scrambled up the wall, finding footholds in the rough brick. She rolled onto the roof and hastened across it in silence. Overhead three nagataaru swirled and danced around three pyrikon warriors, their swords rising and falling in battle. Caina reached the edge of the roof and peered down.

Callatas stood ten feet below her, the Staff glowing with gray light as he finished his spell.

He didn’t look up.

No one, Caina reflected, ever looked up.

She leaped from the roof, shadow-cloak billowing around her, and slammed into the Grand Master’s back.

The dagger ripped through his wards and sank deep into his back, just below his left shoulder.

The impact drove him across the narrow alley and into the opposite wall. He started to cast a spell, but it was too late, far too late, and with a surge of exultation Caina knew that she had him.

Her arm pumped, driving the ghostsilver dagger down once, twice, three times, every blow slipping between his ribs to seek his lungs and heart. The back of his brilliant white robes turned red with blood, and Callatas tried to scream but only produced a groaning wheeze, bloody foam flying from his lips. He stumbled away from Caina and fell to his knees, the Staff clutched in one hand, pawing at the sash of his robe with his other hand.

Caina drew back the ghostsilver dagger, intending to bury it in his neck.

The Staff activated once more.

###

“You know,” said the Huntress, grinning at Morgant, “I think I want that dagger.”

“It’s not for sale,” said Morgant, keeping his breathing slow and level. Maybe three minutes had passed since Caina and Callatas had disappeared into the netherworld, and the Huntress had spent that time issuing taunts. She had also spent that time healing, her burns vanishing, and Morgant wondered if he should have pressed his advantage, trying to cut her down before she recovered.

Of course, if he had done that, maybe he and Annarah would be dead right now. Delaying had meant Annarah had gotten her breath back, white fire playing up and down her pyrikon staff. A single spell of the Words of Lore had inflicted more damage on the Huntress than anything Morgant had done, and if he could pin the Huntress in place along enough for Annarah to cast a spell…

“For sale?” said the Huntress with a smile. “I shall pay for it in your own blood.”

“Oh, that’s just insulting,” said Morgant.

The Huntress blinked. “What?”

“Is that supposed to be a taunt? ‘Pay for it in your own blood?’ As taunts go that’s feeble. Obviously we’re going to try to kill each other in a few minutes. So somebody’s blood is going to get spilled, and stating the obvious isn’t terrifying. Will you point out that the sky is blue next? I expect better from a woman of your age.”

The Huntress started at him for a moment, and then broke into one of her reedy giggles. “You have a point.” Her gaze flicked to Annarah. “Does he always talk this much?”

Annarah said nothing, the burning staff motionless in her hand.

“Well,” said the Huntress. She rolled her shoulders, a few loose strands of blond hair dancing around her head. Morgant tightened his grip on his weapons, expecting her to strike. “This has been simply delightful, but…”

Her head snapped to the right, her blue eyes narrowing.

“Morgant,” said Annarah.

His first impulse was to attack the Huntress while she was distracted, but he discarded the idea. Something might have drawn her attention, but he had no doubt she was still watching him. She might even have feigned distraction to draw him in.

It was what Morgant would have done, after all.

Yet he risked a quick glance to the south, and saw dark shapes moving along the beach. Had Murat sent another landing party to the island? No, the corsair captain wasn’t that stupid, and he wouldn’t risk his hide, not when he simply had to wait for Caina and Morgant and Annarah to return. Morgant’s next thought was that more baboons had emerged from the jungle, but the shapes were too big for that…

“The dead Immortals,” said Annarah, her voice tight with alarm. “They’re coming for us.”

“Rude of them,” said Morgant. “Dead men ought to stay dead. Life is so much simpler that way.”

“Ah,” said the Huntress. “They have been inhabited by lesser nagataaru.” Her frown deepened. “I cannot command them.”

“You can command lesser nagataaru?” said Morgant.

“Of course I can,” said the Huntress. “But the ones in those damned mummified monkeys refused to heed me…”

“Baboons,” said Morgant.

“What?”

“They weren’t monkeys,” said Morgant, watching the dead Immortals move slowly along the beach. “They were baboons. A key difference.”

“Who the hell cares?” said the Huntress. “A monkey is a monkey. They ought to have obeyed me, but they did not.”

“Probably because they were vassals of the Harbinger,” said Morgant, remembering what Caina had told them of Samnirdamnus’s warning.

“Who is the Harbinger?” said the Huntress.

“Oh, dear,” said Morgant. “The Grand Master didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” said the Huntress.

“That his dear friend Kharnaces is possessed by a rival of the nagataaru lord within you?”

The Huntress blinked, her head tilting to the side again, her eyes narrowing.

A moment later she cursed several times.

“They’ll kill us both, you know,” said Morgant.

“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you,” said the Huntress. “Evidently it is your turn to state the obvious.”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss it,” said Morgant.

“These are more powerful nagataaru than the ones that inhabited those damned monkeys,” said the Huntress. She stepped back, purple fire flickering in her eyes as she considered Morgant and Annarah. “Shall we kill each other and let the Immortals tear us apart?”

“Are you seriously suggesting,” said Annarah, “that we fight alongside you?”

The Huntress offered a lazy shrug. “We either fight alongside each other, or we die alongside each other.” She grinned, her eyes wild. “But I can outrun both of you, and I would be more than content to leave you behind to die. Though I do not fancy getting hunted by undead baboons and undead Immortals from one end of this miserable little island to another.”

“Fine,” said Morgant. “We’ll…”

There was a crackling noise, and a pillar of mist appeared a dozen yards away. Gray light shone from the pillar, brighter in the gloom of the impending twilight.

“Morgant!” said Annarah. “The Staff is opening another gate.”

Morgant looked at the Huntress, at the advancing Immortals, and back at the Huntress. Fortunately, she seemed just as uncertain of what to do next as Morgant.

Something dark flickered at the corner of his eye. Morgant turned his head from the Huntress for just a moment, and a dozen misshapen figures darted through the jungle, loping along on all fours. He glimpsed leathery, cracked hides, weathered bone, yellowed fangs, and empty eye sockets that burned with purple fire.

The nagataaru-possessed baboons had returned.

The crackling noise rose to a thunderclap, and a snarling rift of gray mist and harsh light appeared.

###

It felt as if Caina fell forever, plummeting through an endless void of gray mist and flickering light.

Yet it lasted only a second, and the hot, humid air of Pyramid Isle washed over her once more, and Caina stumbled forward. Her momentum carried her into a tree, and she bounced off it, her arms wheeling to keep her balance. There was a flash of light, and her pyrikon settled around her left wrist, resuming the shape of a delicate ghostsilver bracelet once more.

Callatas, she had to find Callatas.

The wounds she had dealt him had been mortal, but the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis might be able to heal him, and the Master Alchemists had ways of recovering from mortal injury…

A wave of dizziness swept through her, followed by another searing bolt of pain between her eyes. Caina grabbed at the tree to keep her balance, tasting her blood on her lips, feeling it trickle from her nose. This time the pain did not subside, seeming to grow harsher and sharper with every beat of her heart.

No. She couldn’t deal with it now. Caina shoved away from the tree, past a warding stone, and onto the beach.

Morgant and Annarah stood side by side, facing Kalgri, who waited a dozen yards away, her ghostsilver short sword and a steel dagger ready in her hands. To the south the Immortals ran up the beach, which wasn’t right, because the baboons had killed all the Immortals…

Callatas staggered towards Kalgri, his face gray, the back of his robe wet with blood. The Grand Master dropped to one knee, clutching something in his left hand, something that blazed with sorcerous power. Caina stepped forward, raising her ghostsilver dagger, and Callatas lifted the thing to his lips and threw back his head. Something small and glittering fell from his hand and bounced against the sand.

An empty crystalline vial, the kind Alchemists used to store their most potent Elixirs.

Callatas began to glow, both to Caina’s physical eyes and the vision of the valikarion, golden fire burning through his veins and beneath his skin. He stood up with a growl, his face a rictus of agony.

He had just swallowed a vial of Elixir Rejuvenata, made from the mingled ashes of unborn children and a phoenix spirit.

“Get back!” shouted Annarah. “Get away from him!”

Kalgri sprinted to the north, watching over her shoulder. Caina considered charging Callatas, hoping to kill him before the Elixir finished, but realized that it was too late. The Elixir was working its power, and any wounds she dealt to him would be healed at once. That, and the release of power from the Elixir would kill her.

So she ran towards Annarah and Morgant, staggering. The pain in her head was making it difficult to keep her balance. She stumbled to a halt next to Morgant, and Annarah caught her wrist.

“Caina,” said Annarah. “What…”

Callatas threw back his head and screamed, and golden fire erupted from him.

Caina and the others were a safe distance away, yet she still felt a faint tremor go through the ground, a massive thunderclap ringing in her ears. A blast of hot wind washed over the beach, knocking her back a step, and a pillar of golden fire exploded from where Callatas had been standing, shooting a hundred yards into the air. The fire ripped out from him for twenty yards in all directions, and the nearby trees caught flame. The sorcerous power of the unleashed Elixir roared over Caina like a wave of needles, her skin crawling and tingling, and she squinted her eyes against the glare.

The golden fire faded away and finally winked out. A circle of sand twenty yards across had been melted to glass, and fires danced in the jungle. Callatas stood at the center of the smoking circle, breathing hard. His robes were intact, though still torn and stained with blood from Caina’s dagger blows. Likely the spells armoring his robes had let them survive the release of power.

Callatas himself was…younger.

The Grand Master looked like a man of twenty, his shoulders unbowed, his skin unlined, his hair and beard black as night. The Elixir Rejuvenata restored youth and vitality, stealing them from the ashes of the unborn children mixed into the Elixir. Callatas seemed utterly bewildered and exhausted, and he fell to his knees, leaning on the Staff for balance. The Staff and the Seal and the Star had come through the explosion unharmed. Caina suspected it would take far more to even begin to damage the relics.

The Elixir had healed all of his wounds. But the Grand Master was dazed, and Caina still had her ghostsilver dagger. More than that, she doubted that Callatas had carried more than one vial of the priceless Elixir with him.

This was their last chance.

“Now!” shouted Caina. “Take him!”

She sprinted for Callatas, Morgant running next to her, Annarah hurrying behind them. Callatas looked at them, blinking his gray eyes, but he remained dazed. Caina wasn’t even sure that he saw them.

A dark blur shot over the top of Callatas’s head and landed in front of him, the melted glass crunching. Kalgri straightened up, a gleeful smile on her face and the dark fire of her nagataaru shining in her eyes.

“Caina, Caina, Caina!” said Kalgri, laughing in triumph. “The stormdancer isn’t here to save you today!”

She shot forward, weapons blurring…and then froze in place as arcane power blazed around them. Caina flinched, or tried to, and then realized that the same power held her fast. She could still turn her head, and saw Annarah and Morgant frozen in place.

Gods, but her head hurt…and Caina had seen this spell before.

“No,” rasped Callatas, staring at the jungle.

A man in a pristine white robe stood at the edge of the beach.

Except, of course, he hadn’t been a living man for a very long time.

His expression was serene, his hair jet-black, his dark eyes lined with kohl makeup. The man looked Anshani, yet his brown skin had a strange golden tinge, one rarely seen after the Moroaica had brought ruin crashing down upon the heads of the Great Necromancers. He wore a simple white robe bound at the waist with a white sash, and the top of his robe was far enough open to show an expanse of muscular chest. In his right hand he carried a heavy bronze dagger with a forward-curving blade, and upon his feet he wore unadorned leather sandals.

His feet were floating a few inches off the ground.

But Caina knew that the man wasn’t really here. This was a projection spell, albeit one of sufficient power to allow the projection to cast spells and manipulate physical objects. Now that she was a valikarion, Caina could see the immense skill and power in the projection…skill and power that could have only come from a Great Necromancer of Maat.

Kharnaces looked at them, and the purple fire of the Harbinger pulsed through his dark eyes. Dark shapes moved in the trees behind him, and nearly a hundred undead baboons loped forward, pausing at the edge of the jungle. Caina heard the clatter of damaged armor as the undead Immortals moved forward.

“Ah, I see,” said Kharnaces at last, his voice deep and musical and calm. He spoke the high tongue of ancient Maat, and Caina understood it now, thanks to knowledge Kharnaces had shoved into her skull during their last meeting. “My wayward pupil and my chosen instrument have both returned! And as one of the accursed valikarion, no less. Indeed, even I did not foresee this. Yet the paths of fate are ever crooked. Yes. Let me look at you.”

Kharnaces glided forward, the white robe stirring in the wind. He stopped between Caina and Kalgri, and scrutinized Caina for a moment. His face remained serene, but she felt the furious malice of the creature lurking behind those dark eyes.

“How astonishing,” murmured Kharnaces at last. “A valikarion returned to the world, after I thought my wayward pupil had rid me of those vexing troublemakers. I feared this might happen, once the stormdancer confronted my shadow in the center of your mind.”

“Maybe there are other dangers you should beware,” said Caina in ancient Maatish. The words felt strange and heavy upon her lips, and her head would not stop throbbing.

“No,” said Kharnaces. “There are no dangers left for me. My plans have been fulfilled, if not in quite the way I planned. All is in readiness, and soon our diseased and blighted world will perish as it should have done long ago.”

He turned away from Caina, gliding towards Callatas. At last Callatas seemed to recognize the danger. He scrambled backwards, trying to regain his balance, but failed to stand. He started to gather power for a spell, but Kharnaces flicked a finger, collapsing the spell before Callatas could finish it.

“My wayward student,” said Kharnaces. “At last you have returned to me, bearing the relics of lost Iramis. Of course, the relics are as useless as Iramis itself, and the key to my victory flows through your veins.”

“No!” said Callatas, trying to stand again. “I shall save humanity, I shall make it better, I shall make it perfect…”

Kharnaces sighed, the gentle sound a teacher disappointed in a student.

“There is nothing to be saved in humanity,” said Kharnaces, gliding to a stop next to Callatas. “There is nothing perfectible in humanity. Nothing worthwhile or honorable or noble. Mankind is simply a disease that blights the world. The nagataaru shall make the world clean once more.”

“No!” said Callatas, trying to rise. Again Kharnaces flicked a finger, and a psychokinetic burst knocked the Grand Master to the smoking ground. “You will…”

“It took longer than I expected,” said Kharnaces. “The loremaster concealing the regalia here proved an effective stratagem. But, in the end, you returned to me. Did I not foretell that you would?” He beckoned, and Callatas floated into the air, still clutching the Staff of Iramis. “You of all men should have realized the truth. You cannot stop me. You cannot avert this. You can only acquiesce.”

Kharnaces pulled back Callatas’s left sleeve, and dragged the curved dagger along the inside of his arm. Blood welled up from the cut, and Kharnaces slid the dagger back and forth over the wound, coating the blade in the blood of the Grand Master.

“Stop,” said Callatas. “You do not understand, you…”

“Behold,” said Kharnaces, lifting the bloody dagger before Callatas’s eyes. “The final instrument. The catalyst that shall finish the Conjurant Bloodcrystal and summon Kotuluk Iblis. You do a great service, though you know it not.”

“Kharnaces,” said Caina, her mind racing. “Callatas is possessed by Kotuluk Iblis. Does that not mean you must obey him?”

Kharnaces glanced at her, his expression calm, but she saw the purple fire and shadow snarling in his eyes.

“You do not understand, valikarion,” said Kharnaces. “Perhaps you are incapable of understanding. The valikarion would never have understood. They spent too much time trying to save what could not be saved.”

“Enlighten me, then,” said Caina, trying to think of a plan through the agony in her head.

“The nagataaru shall devour our world,” said Kharnaces. “It is inevitable. The Court of the Azure Sovereign has been scattered and imprisoned, and there are none left to defend the world. This world is doomed, but there are many ways in which the death blow could land. Kotuluk Iblis, in his wisdom, has permitted his vassals to compete for the death of humanity.” He gestured at Kalgri. “The Voice advocated one path. The Harbinger advocated another. Yet the Harbinger’s victory was also inevitable. For I am the Harbinger and the Harbinger is me, and I am also Kharnaces, and no foe has ever stood before me.”

“Except, of course,” said Caina, “when the other Great Necromancers imprisoned you here.”

Kharnaces went every still, and the purple fire blazed around his eyes like a forge. Sorcerous power snarled in the air around him, and for an instant Caina thought that she had pushed him too far.

Yet the purple fire dimmed, and the eerie calm returned to Kharnaces’s face.

“As I said, the valikarion are incapable of understanding,” said Kharnaces. “Perhaps you shall understand in the glorious moment when the nagataaru descend from the skies and cleanse the world of humanity.” A flicker of the insane rage went through his eyes once more. “And as for the other Great Necromancers…they and the Kingdom of the Rising Sun are ashes, and I am still here.”

He floated away from Callatas, who slumped against the Staff, his forehead resting against it. Kharnaces glided to the jungle, and as he did, hundreds of the undead baboons poured out of the trees, joining the undead Immortals. Hundreds of the dead things encircled Caina, Annarah, Morgant, Callatas, and Kalgri, hundreds of purple-burning eyes gazing at them.

“My final punishment for your perfidy, my wayward pupil,” said Kharnaces, “is that you shall not live to see the glorious advent of the nagataaru. You shall not live to see humanity wiped from the face of the world like dirt from a mirror. Instead, you shall die here, upon this beach, and you shall know final failure.”

Kharnaces disappeared into the jungle, and the undead things waited. Caina struggled against the bands of power holding her motionless. She wondered if the nagataaru would kill them at once, or wait until the spell ended for greater sport.

Her answer came a moment later when Kharnaces’s spell winked out, and Caina could move again. The undead Immortals and baboons surged forward, and Caina set herself, hoping to cut down at least one of them before they took her…

Callatas shouted, and golden fire erupted from him. It passed through Caina and the others without harming them, but pushed back the nagataaru and their undead hosts. A ring of golden fire twenty yards across encircled Caina and the others, holding the undead at bay. The baboons raked at the ring of pale fire, and the Immortals hammered at it, but none of them could break through.

Caina took a step towards Callatas, and the Grand Master’s gaze met hers.

“If you kill me,” he rasped, “the spell ends, and we all die.”

His eyes rolled up into his head, and he passed out upon the ground.

Caina looked at him, at Kalgri, and then at Morgant and Annarah.

“Well,” said Morgant, “now what?”

She started to answer, and then pain exploded through her skull, her vision turning crimson. Caina felt herself falling, felt herself hit the ground, still hot from the firestorm of Callatas’s Elixir. She heard Annarah shouting, but could not make it out the words.

The last thing Caina saw was Kalgri grinning at her.

Chapter 15: A Second Pact

A long, long time later, Caina’s eyes slid open.

Her eyelids felt like lead, her mouth dry and gritty, her head pounding. She had been hungover once in her life, and this felt much worse.

“Oh, thank the Divine,” said Annarah’s voice. “Thank the Divine. She’s awake.”

Caina groaned, sat up, and looked around.

She would rather have been hungover.

Night had fallen, but Callatas’s ring of golden fire cast a gentle glow over the beach, and upon the hundreds of undead baboons and Immortals waiting of the ring. Annarah knelt next to Caina, her expression tired, while Morgant stood nearby, his scimitar and dagger in hand. Callatas lay upon the ground, his chest rising and falling. Kalgri sat cross-legged in front of him, calm and relaxed, her hands resting palms-up upon her knees. The Red Huntress looked for all the world like a meditating priestess, but Caina had no doubt that Kalgri’s attention never wavered.

“Aye, she’s awake,” said Morgant, “but let’s hope her brain didn’t turn to mush.” He leaned closer to Caina, still looking at Kalgri. “Who am I?”

“An obnoxious braggart,” said Caina, scowling, rubbing at her temples. “What happened?”

“The netherworld,” said Annarah. “You went to the netherworld. You reshaped the terrain with your mind, did you not?”

Caina nodded, which was a mistake, because it didn’t help her head. “Yes. How did you know?”

“The terrain of the netherworld is psychomorphic,” said Annarah, “but because of the unique abilities of a valikarion, you can manipulate it to a far greater degree than even a powerful sorcerer. Yet this is a dangerous ability, because it puts an immense strain upon the mind…”

“My headache kept getting worse,” said Caina.

“A blood vessel in your brain burst,” said Annarah. “I was able to heal it in time, but if I had not, you would have been dead within thirty seconds.”

A cold chill settled into Caina. She hadn’t even realized the danger. If Annarah had not been there, Caina would have died on this beach without even knowing why.

She would never have seen Kylon again, and he would never know what happened to her.

“Gods,” said Caina. “Thank you. Once again you have cared for me.”

Annarah nodded and squeezed Caina’s shoulder.

“How long was I unconscious?” said Caina.

“About two hours,” said Annarah. She anticipated Caina’s next question. “They haven’t done anything.”

Caina nodded, took a deep breath, and got her feet.

Kalgri looked up at her and smiled, her face so disconcertingly similar to Caina’s own.

“Isn’t this just cozy?” said Kalgri. She let out her disturbing giggle. “Just like the old days at the House of Agabyzus, isn’t it? If only Damla were here. Then I could bring you some coffee, and listen while you told each other all your secrets.”

Caina said nothing.

“Was Damla pleased that you took the stormdancer into your bed?” said Kalgri. “I suppose she cooed and clapped. But. Does she know you are a replacement for Kylon’s dead wife? An inferior replacement, at that. After all, poor doomed Lady Thalastre was pregnant when I killed her, but you never will be.”

A bolt of pure rage went through Caina, but she kept it from her face.

“I wonder,” said Kalgri, “if Kylon’s exile is ever lifted, won’t he just go back to New Kyre? He’ll be a proper Kyracian noble once more, and he’ll find a proper Kyracian wife. One who can pop out proper little Kyracian nobles. I suppose he’ll forget all about you, won’t he?”

“Why haven’t you tried to kill us yet?” said Caina.

“Oh, it wouldn’t be any fun,” said Kalgri. She giggled again. “I want to kill you in front of Kylon. I killed his pregnant wife while he watched. He was so fast, but not fast enough to save her. How he screamed!”

“No,” said Caina. “You never need a reason to kill. The only reason you have not to kill is to preserve your own life.” She took another deep breath. It helped a little with her headache. “Which means you are afraid for your life right now.”

Kalgri said nothing, but the flicker of purple fire in her eyes was all that Caina needed.

“You haven’t killed us because you’re guarding Callatas,” said Caina, “and if we kill Callatas, the spell ends and the nagataaru tear us apart.”

Kalgri jerked her head at the ring of fire. “If you want to get yourself killed, I won’t stop you. Go ahead. That spell won’t hurt you. Step outside the ring and see what happens.”

“If we kill Callatas,” said Caina, “then the Apotheosis never happens. Maybe that is worth my life.”

Kalgri let out a disgusted sigh. “How are you even still alive? You keep trying to sacrifice yourself. ‘Oh, I must sacrifice myself gloriously and nobly, for if I do Kylon will live and be happy and Damla will sell her coffee and Laertes will find husbands for his ugly daughters.’ So go on.” She rolled one hand, beckoning. “Come and kill Callatas and see what happens. Maybe you’ll kill him and stop the Apotheosis, and everyone will live happily ever after…for about three days, after which the nagataaru will kill them all when Kharnaces finishes his work.”

Caina said nothing.

“See?” said Kalgri. “Isn’t it helpful to think things through before you act?”

“Fine,” said Caina. “We can’t fight, because we might all get ourselves killed. What do you suggest?”

Kalgri shrugged. “You’re the Balarigar. You’re the one who blew up the Inferno and killed Cassander.”

“Why didn’t you tell Cassander I was still alive?” said Caina, though she suspected the answer.

“Because I thought it would get both of you killed without any effort on my part,” said Kalgri. “It halfway worked. And my point is that you’re the Balarigar. Why don’t you think up something clever?”

Right about then Callatas let out a groan and sat up.

###

Bit by bit, the mind of Grand Master Callatas swam back into focus.

He began to realize that he had made a very serious mistake.

He felt…he felt…

Excellent.

That always happened with Elixir Rejuvenata. It had been decades since he had last used a vial of the Elixir, and Callatas had grown old again. He had forgotten what it had felt like to be young. A hundred different little aches and pains had accumulated over the years, and he had grown used to them and forgotten them. The Elixir Rejuvenata had wiped that all away, giving him the strength and stamina of a twenty-year-old man.

He looked around the circle of golden light, at Caina Amalas and Kalgri and Annarah. All three were quite lovely, and his rejuvenated flesh had renewed urges, putting entertaining visions in his mind as he wondered what their flesh would feel like beneath his hands as he…

Disgust filled him, and Callatas shoved the notions aside. The fate of the new humanity hung in the balance, and he was lusting after women as if he was as stupid as Erghulan Amirasku. And he had much, much larger problems at the moment.

Think. He had to think.

“Good evening, father,” said Kalgri with a bright, mad smile. “Did you have a pleasant nap?”

Rage coursed through him, and he started to gather arcane power to strike her dead where she stood. Then Caina started forward, that damned ghostsilver dagger in her hand, as did the black-clad man next to her. Annarah began casting a spell, her pyrikon shimmering with white fire. Kalgri turned to face them, her weapons glinting in her hands. Belatedly, Callatas realized they assumed he was going to attack. He had forgotten what it was like to have the volatile temper of a young man.

He had better remember fast, or he was going to get killed and all his work would be for naught.

“Wait,” said Callatas. “Wait, damn you all!”

He released the power of his spell, letting it drain away. Caina’s eyes remained fixed upon him. Those eyes were a cold, metallic shade of blue, and if she really was a valikarion, she could see every time he summoned power…

Why fool himself? He had seen what she had done in the netherworld. She was obviously a valikarion.

The others remained motionless, but did not lower their weapons. Callatas grunted and got to his feet, using the Staff of Iramis as a lever. No one offered to help him. But, then, standing was easier than he remembered, too.

Another advantage of a rejuvenated body.

For a moment Callatas stared at the others. Kalgri seemed amused, but he sensed the Voice stirring within her, and she was no doubt ready to spring into violence at the first sign of a threat. Annarah only looked sad. Caina’s face was a pale mask, with no hint of her emotions. The black-coated man smiled at him, his eyes glittering…

“Wait,” said Callatas. “I know you. The painter. Markaine of Caer Marist?”

Caina snorted, once, and the black-coated man offered a jaunty little salute with his dagger.

“What the devil are you doing here?” said Callatas, baffled.

“Well,” said the black-coated man, “I spent a great deal of time and effort painting that mural for you in the Tarshahzon Gardens, but you never did finish paying me.”

“The mural?” said Callatas, and then he remembered. The emirs had been growing restive, and he had hired some painter or another to create a mural showing the destruction of Iramis. A reminder of the Grand Master’s power had helped quiet the troublesome nobles. “You should to have been honored. Yet that was decades ago. You ought to have died…”

“His name,” said Annarah, “is Morgant the Razor. You sent him to kill me and reclaim the final two pieces of the regalia of Princes. Instead, I convinced him to help me hide the relics from you.”

Callatas let out a hissing breath, fresh anger surging through him. “And you hindered me for a century and a half! A century and a half wasted! You foolish, clumsy girl!” For just a moment pain went across her face, but then her jaw tightened. “The Apotheosis could have been worked a century ago if you hadn’t…”

“If she hadn’t hidden the regalia from you,” said Caina, her voice quiet, “then you would have returned to Pyramid Isle long ago, and everyone here would be dead.”

Callatas glared at her, but said nothing. She had an excellent point. Kharnaces had laid his trap long ago, and Callatas had blundered right into it.

“I assume,” said Caina, “that you’ve realized what happened?”

Callatas’s fingers tightened against the Staff. “Kharnaces left a compulsion hidden in my subconscious mind, concealed so carefully that even I didn’t realize it was there.” Kalgri glanced at him in surprise. “Once I touched the Staff and the Seal, the compulsion activated, and I had to bring the relics to Pyramid Isle. I thought it was my own idea, that it was necessary for the Apotheosis.” His memories of the last week, save for the battle in the netherworld, were hazy. Nevertheless he had been consumed by the idea that he had to bring the regalia to Pyramid Isle to complete the Apotheosis, even though he knew that returning to the island would likely mean his death.

Worse, it would mean the failure of the Apotheosis, and the stillbirth of the new humanity.

“Indeed?” said Kalgri. “That was idiotic.”

The rage pulsed through him, but he had no rejoinder. She was right.

“We all make mistakes,” said Morgant. His mocking tone made Callatas want to kill him. “Shall we proceed to the killing and get it over with?”

The assassin’s posture was relaxed, but his eyes strayed to Caina as he spoke. It seemed that she was the one who made the decisions. Callatas thought that absurd. Morgant was over two hundred years old. Annarah was a loremaster of Iramis, strong and skilled with the Words of Lore. And yet both of them deferred to this half-crazed Nighmarian girl in her twenties. What utter folly! What utter…

No.

He dared not think that way. Callatas had wondered how Ricimer and Anburj and Cassander and Rolukhan and Kalgri had all failed against Caina Amalas. She was one woman with sorcery or influence, just a spy, and spies were little better than thieves and prostitutes. Surely their failure against Caina Amalas was proof of their idiocy.

Callatas knew better now.

She had come closer to killing him than anyone else for a century and a half, so close that she had almost been victorious. His hands had been shaking badly when he had drawn the vial of Elixir Rejuvenata from his sash, and he had almost dropped it. If he had dropped it, he would not have had the strength to pick it up, and he would have died then and there.

The Apotheosis would have failed…and all because he had underestimated this woman, just as Anburj and Ricimer and Rolukhan and Cassander had underestimated her.

No. He dared not make the same mistake twice.

“You could kill me,” said Callatas, waving his hand at the ring of golden light encircling them. “But if you do, the spell ends, and then the Harbinger’s nagataaru will kill the rest of you.”

“We might be able to break free,” said Caina, “and the nagataaru cannot see me.”

“True,” said Callatas. “But that protection does not extend to your companions. And there are so many mummified baboons and dead Immortals that you will almost certainly bump into one. It will call to the others, and you will be overwhelmed.” He smiled. “Furthermore, Kalgri will almost certainly try to kill you.”

“Almost?” said Kalgri.

“You see, then,” said Callatas, gesturing with the Staff. “The odds against you are rather long.”

“Then you will try to kill us?” said Caina.

Callatas felt his lip twitch. “You observed how well that went the last time.”

She stared at him. He wished that the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis could touch her, that he could peer into her thoughts and discern her intentions, but the mind of a valikarion was closed to him. A valikarion was a deadly foe to any sorcerer…but Callatas was not the only sorcerer on Pyramid Isle.

Yes. Perhaps he could use his enemies against each other.

Of course, the suggestion was obvious.

“Let me guess,” said Caina. “You’re about to suggest that we work together to stop Kharnaces. You don’t want him to destroy the world, because that will stop you from destroying the world with the Apotheosis…”

“The Apotheosis will not destroy the world,” said Callatas, forcing back his anger. “The Apotheosis will renew humanity and…”

“Yes, whatever, I don’t care,” said Caina. “I’ve heard that speech before, and it’s the same stupid speech every single damned time. I’m sure the world will be a marvelous paradise once you’ve killed a few million people. You’re just annoyed Kharnaces is going to beat you to it.” Her face tightened with contempt. “And he’s more honest than you are. You think you’re going to save the world. At least Kharnaces admits that he’s going to kill it.”

Callatas scowled. The stupid child did not understand his purpose, did not…

He pushed aside his contempt. Contempt led to underestimating an enemy, and that led to a ghostsilver dagger jammed between his ribs. He had no desire to experience that again.

“Then you see,” said Callatas, “that we have a common purpose.”

“Do we?” said Caina.

“Of course,” said Callatas. “We both wish to stop Kharnaces before it is too late.” His gaze strayed towards the island’s central hill. In the pale moonlight, the rocky hill gleamed like a spike of bone. “He will take my blood and activate the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.”

“How long will that take?” said Caina.

“Three days,” said Callatas with a shrug. “Perhaps as long as a week. The Conjurant Bloodcrystal is a device of titanic power, and moving that much power takes time, even for a Great Necromancer. We have that long to destroy Kharnaces and destroy the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.”

“And just how are we going to do that?” said Morgant. “You might be the great and powerful Grand Master, but Kharnaces slapped you around like a puppy.”

“I had just been stabbed several times,” said Callatas through gritted teeth.

“He is still stronger than you, though,” said Annarah in a quiet voice. “You would have found him a challenging foe even at your full strength.”

“I defeated him once before,” said Callatas.

“You escaped from him once before,” said Caina. “There is a difference.”

Callatas let out a long breath. “Yes.”

“So how do we kill him?” said Morgant. “He’s undead. Hard to kill a man who died long before any of us were born.”

“His canopic jars,” said Caina.

“Then you indeed faced a Great Necromancer once before,” said Callatas. “Cassander said as much, but I didn’t believe him…”

“What,” said Morgant, “is a canopic jar?”

Caina took a deep breath, her face turning distant with memory. Likely it was an unpleasant memory, knowing the Great Necromancers. “The Great Necromancers were the priests of ancient Maat, the Kingdom of the Rising Sun. When they died, the greatest of them rose again as Undying, their spirits able to inhabit any corpse. They did this by anchoring their souls to canopic jars – seven enspelled stone jars holding seven mummified organs taken from their bodies. The heart, the lungs, the kidneys, the liver, and the stomach. So long as one of those jars survives, the Great Necromancer’s spirit is anchored to the world, and it can reenter another body at will.”

“Then the only way to kill Kharnaces,” said Morgant, “is to find and smash the jars.”

“Yes,” said Caina. Her eyes shifted back to Callatas. “I assume you tried and failed?”

“For several years,” he said. He disliked to admit failure in front of his enemies, but she would figure it out anyway.

“Then it’s possible he has them hidden all over that Tomb of his,” said Morgant.

“No,” said Caina. “They’ll be close together, possibly secured within the same container. The further away the jars are from each other, the weaker Kharnaces becomes. I suspect he will need all his sorcerous power to complete the Conjurant Bloodcrystal. Did you find any of them?”

“No,” admitted Callatas.

“I think I know where they are,” said Caina.

“Where?” said Callatas.

“In his throne room,” said Caina. “There was a mummified corpse sitting upon the throne, with tremendous wards around it, clad in the robe and mask of a Great Necromancer. I suspect that was Kharnaces’s real body, his original body. I think the canopic jars are secured underneath the throne.”

“A fine idea,” said Callatas. It had, in fact, occurred to him, but he had never been able to breach the wards around Kharnaces’s throne to check for himself. “Yet how are we to exploit it? The Tomb of Kharnaces is ringed with wards, to say nothing of the guardians.” He flicked a hand in the direction of the nagataaru-possessed baboons and Immortals. “More formidable guardians wait in the Tomb itself.”

“I know,” said Caina. “So we’ll turn invisible.”

“Invisible?” scoffed Callatas. “You think to turn us into Silent Hunters?”

“Those nagataaru are inhabiting dead bodies,” said Caina. “Undead baboons and Immortals. A creature like the Huntress,” Kalgri smirked at that, “can see through both her eyes of flesh and the senses of her nagataaru. Those baboons and Immortals don’t have working eyes. They can only perceive the physical world through the senses of their nagataaru, and the nagataaru don’t understand the physical world well at all. So if we obscure ourselves from the senses of the nagataaru, we can escape.”

“Won’t Kharnaces just blast us to ashes?” said Morgant.

Caina shook her head. “He’ll be busy with the spells to activate the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.”

“And he will not be able to kill me,” said Callatas, “until the first few steps are finished.”

Caina eyed him. “You mean if you’re dead, he cannot finish the Conjurant Bloodcrystal?”

Callatas discerned her thought well enough. If she killed him now, she would stop both the Apotheosis and the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.

“For another few hours, yes,” said Callatas. “However, Kharnaces will soon have my blood integrated with the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, likely within the hour. If you kill me right now, you might stop the bloodcrystal. Of course, if you kill me, the nagataaru will tear you apart, and the complete regalia of the Princes shall remain on Pyramid Isle, the Staff and the Seal and the Star.” Callatas gestured at himself. “With these instruments, a sorcerer of Kharnaces’s skill would soon find an alternative to the Conjurant Bloodcrystal. Since no one will know the relics are here, there will be no one to stop Kharnaces.”

Caina just stared at him. She did have a pretty face, he had to admit, with those cold blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. Likely that was just the urges of his rejuvenated flesh. Yet he also had to admit her expression gave away nothing of her thoughts. For all he knew, she could be listening to him, or preparing to attack him with that ghostsilver dagger.

“Your first plan was better,” said Callatas. “We can mask ourselves from the sight of the nagataaru, and make our way to the Tomb. You all caught me off guard, so presumably you all have some means of doing so.”

“And then what?” said Caina, her voice soft and cold. “Once Kharnaces is defeated?”

Callatas smiled. “Then I kill you.”

She said nothing, her eyes unblinking.

“Or you kill me,” said Callatas. “You almost did it once, I confess. Another few seconds and I would have been finished. Perhaps next time you will be a little luckier. But this is what I propose, Caina Amalas the Balarigar. A pact between us.”

For some reason a shiver of unidentifiable emotion went through her face at the word.

“A pact,” said Caina.

“You are familiar with the concept, I trust?” said Callatas. “A temporary truce and alliance. We agree not to harm each other until Kharnaces is defeated. Until then, we shall defend each other and work together to the best of our mutual ability to stop Kharnaces. And then, once Kharnaces is defeated and the Conjurant Bloodcrystal destroyed, we can kill each other.”

“Do not agree to this,” said Annarah at once, her voice calm but urgent. “You know what this man has done. He murdered every man, woman, and child in Iramis. He murdered thousands of slaves in his laboratories to addict the poor of Istarinmul to wraithblood. He sent the Huntress after you, and she murdered Lord Kylon’s wife and the Divine only knows how many others.” Kalgri offered a theatrical little bow. “He let Cassander run amok through Istarinmul, and that almost killed hundreds of thousands of people.”

“All that you say is true,” said Callatas, “though the loremaster lacks the vision to see my true purpose.”

“Because unlike you,” said Caina, “she still has a conscience.”

Callatas scoffed. “And what of you? Caina Amalas the Balarigar? The thief who terrorized the Slavers’ Brotherhood and crippled Istarinmul? The rebel who destroyed the Widow’s Tower and the Craven’s Tower and the Inferno? The woman who has meddled in my affairs again and again and again?” His anger rose again as he thought of the many setbacks this damnable woman had dealt him. “Furthermore, you have allied yourself with a student who was too foolish to appreciate my true purpose, and an incompetent assassin whose treachery set back the Apotheosis by a century and a half!”

“You really should have paid for the mural,” said Morgant.

Callatas let out a long breath, forcing back his rage. “The harsh truth, Balarigar, is that we need each other, as loathsome as we both find that fact. I cannot stop Kharnaces on my own, and neither can you. Together, perhaps, we have a chance.”

“What about Kalgri?” said Caina. “Will you be able to control her?”

“Yes,” said Callatas, and Kalgri let out a derisive laugh.

“My darling Caina,” said Kalgri, and Caina’s lip twitched, more emotion than she had shown during her entire conversation with Callatas. Callatas found that interesting. She was afraid of Kalgri on a visceral level. “I want to kill the world. Kharnaces simply wants to destroy it, and if he does, I won’t be able to kill it myself.” She let out that annoying, coquettish giggle. “I was willing to let you and Cassander kill each other for that.”

Callatas’s fingers tightened against the Staff. Yes, he owed Kalgri for that, too. If she had simply told him where the Staff and Seal were hidden, rather than playing her insane game with Caina and Cassander Nilas, then perhaps Callatas might have realized the trap that Kharnaces had set for him. Perhaps he might have found a way to retrieve the Staff and the Seal without putting himself at risk like this.

He could repay the insane bitch later, once he no longer had need of her. Once the Apotheosis was complete and the new humanity rose from the ashes of the old, he would take great pleasure in ridding himself of the Red Huntress at last.

“Of course we cannot trust each other,” said Callatas. “But we have overlapping interests. Until Kharnaces is defeated, it would be madness to turn upon each other. We can kill each other now, if you wish…but you will doom the world.”

Caina said nothing, and Callatas braced himself, preparing to cast a spell. Yet he did not think it would be necessary. From what Cassander had told him, Caina was a woman willing to use whatever tools were at hand to achieve her goals.

Rather like Callatas himself, he supposed.

“Very well,” said Caina at last.

“I am pleased you can see reason,” said Callatas.

“It isn’t reason, but madness,” said Caina. “Yet there is no other course. Every other path ends in disaster.”

“For you, maybe,” said Kalgri, still smiling.

“You all have methods of concealing yourself from the nagataaru, I trust?” said Callatas. “Other than our bold valikarion, of course. I suggest you employ them now.”

Morgant tapped a brass ring upon his finger. Ah, of course – that was likely why Callatas had been unable to detect him. Annarah scowled at Callatas, but gestured with her staff. The pyrikon folded onto itself, shrinking to a bronze bracelet resting upon her wrist. From somewhere Kalgri produced the shadow-cloak of a Ghost nightfighter and wrapped herself in it, pulling up the cowl to cover her head. So long as she wore it, the Voice would be unable to sense the world around her, but neither could the enemy nagataaru sense her or the Voice.

“Where did you find that, anyway?” said Caina.

“I killed a Ghost nightfighter and took his cloak,” said Kalgri with good cheer. “His ghostsilver short sword, too. It’s been really useful.” She giggled and tapped the pommel of her weapon. “It was long before you were born.”

“Another murder to lay at your feet,” said Caina.

Again Kalgri let out her unsettling giggle. “You’ve racked up your own count of them, haven’t you? But you have a long way to go before you catch me. Will you avenge everyone I ever killed? That might take a while.”

“Enough,” said Callatas, and cast a spell of his own, a ward to mask his presence from spirits. Of course, concealing the Staff and the Star and Seal would take a significant portion of his strength. Still, he ought to have enough left over to make sure they reached the Tomb of Kharnaces.

And then…

And then he would have to think of a way to stop Kharnaces. Callatas’s skill and power had grown greatly in the century and a half since he had left Pyramid Isle, but he knew that Kharnaces was still stronger.

Cassander Nilas and Malik Rolukhan and Ricimer had all been stronger than Caina Amalas, but they were dead and she was not. Perhaps he could maneuver Caina and Kharnaces into destroying each other.

“Well and good,” said Caina. “The nagataaru cannot see us, but we’re still surrounded.”

“Observe,” said Callatas, summoning more power. “Be ready to run.”

###

Caina watched as Callatas drew in a great deal of arcane force.

Part of her, a very large part of her, wanted to put her ghostsilver dagger into his back while he was distracted. She could very well kill Callatas here, but if she did, Kalgri would kill her, or the nagataaru would rip them apart. Then Kharnaces could finish the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, and the nagataaru would devour the world.

The only way to stop Kharnaces, the only way to have a chance of stopping Callatas and his Apotheosis, the only way to save millions of lives, was to work with Callatas and Kalgri.

The very thought made Caina’s skin crawl.

Yet it was the only way to stop the nagataaru.

The only chance she had of ever seeing Kylon again.

So she would swallow her revulsion and do it…and keep an eye on Callatas and Kalgri, because she knew beyond all doubt that they would betray her at the first possible opportunity.

“Be ready,” said Callatas, his free hand blazing with gray light as he prepared a spell of psychokinetic force. “This will scatter them, but we shall have to move in haste.”

He flung out his hand, and the ring of golden fire vanished. At once the baboons and the Immortals charged, and a dome of invisible force erupted from Callatas. It passed through Caina and the others without touching them, but it slammed into the baboons and the nagataaru, throwing the undead creatures to the ground like a field of wheat flattened by a strong wind.

“Now!” shouted Callatas. “Run!”

Caina sprinted forward, Morgant on her left and Annarah on her right. They wove around the stunned undead creatures, making for the trees. Kalgri shot forward in a blur of shadow-cloak and crimson armor, vanishing into the jungle. Caina kept running and saw Callatas hurrying behind them, his tattered white cloak billowing behind him.

The stunned baboons and Immortals started to regain their feet, but by then Caina and Morgant and Annarah had dashed into the jungle, the familiar smells of exotic flowers and decay filling Caina’s nostrils. Callatas plunged after them a moment later, and they came to a halt. Caina looked at the beach and saw the undead fanning out, seeking for them, but so far they had eluded the nagataaru.

“We had best move,” said Caina. “They’ll figure out where we went sooner or later.”

“Yes,” breathed Kalgri’s voice in Caina’s ear.

Caina spun, raising her dagger. Kalgri stood a few paces away, wreathed in her shadow-cloak, the glint of her smile and the purple fire of her eyes just visible beneath the cowl. Once again Caina remembered that awful night in Rumarah, remembered the ghostsilver short sword ripping into her chest, remembered the Huntress’s malicious gloating.

It was all Caina could do not to scream.

“Careful,” said Caina instead, keeping her voice icy. “Sneaking up on people like that is liable to get you stabbed.”

“I’ve found,” said Kalgri, “rather the opposite to be true.”

“Let’s go,” said Caina. “Since you’re so good at creeping up on people, why don’t you scout the way?”

“I assume you know the way to the Tomb?” said Callatas.

“All too well,” said Caina. “We’ll want to avoid the road with the sphinxes. Likely the nagataaru will start their search there.”

Kalgri grinned and melted into the darkness, and they set off into the gloomy jungle.

Chapter 16: The Grand Wazir

As the sun rose, the drums boomed across the steppes, and the distant wail of the war horns rang out. The emotional aura of the thousands of men around Kylon tightened, and he sensed the fear and dread growing within them, accompanied by bloodlust and a steely resolve to stand before the danger.

The battle, he expected, would start today, possibly within an hour.

That meant that thousands of men might be dead by afternoon.

Kylon hastened through the camp.

The camp itself unfolded around them, men rushing to join their captains, the lords and officers shouting orders to their men. A band of horsemen galloped past, and Kylon sidestepped to allow them passage. The drums of Tanzir’s army rolled out, calling the army to battle formation. Kylon jogged to the north, heading for where Tanzir and Sulaman raised their banners. If the Huntress wanted to kill the leadership of the rebel army, this was the logical time to do it. Kylon kept his arcane senses extended, feeling the fear and resolve of the rousing army.

Yet he felt no trace of the Huntress.

More and more, Kylon wondered if he had made a terrible mistake. Caina had been certain that the Red Huntress would come after Sulaman, and Kylon had agreed. Yet there had been no trace of her at all, and Kylon began to fear that the Huntress had accompanied Callatas to Pyramid Isle.

The dread gnawed at him, but Kylon could do nothing about it. All his attention was needed here. Even if the Huntress was hundreds of miles away, this battle still hung in the balance.

That, and Rhataban might kill the leadership of the army himself. He was as lethal as the Huntress, and Kylon had defeated the Master Alchemist through luck during their first encounter. He knew better than to trust to luck for their second fight.

Kylon spotted Strabane striding towards Tanzir’s banner, flanked by a dozen of his Kaltari warriors, the skulls hanging from their belts clicking and tapping as they walked. Kylon ran to join them, and Strabane raised his hand in greeting.

“Lord Kylon!” called Strabane. “Come join us! We shall soon have fighting enough, and the Kaltari would be pleased to fight alongside you.”

“I need to remain near the prince and the emir,” said Kylon, “if the Huntress comes for them.”

“Or Rhataban,” said Strabane. “That man could win the battle on his own.”

“Aye,” said Kylon.

Strabane grunted. “Unless you kill him first.”

“Or he kills me first,” said Kylon.

Strabane laughed. “Maybe, maybe. Battles make everything simple, do they not? Kill or be killed.”

“The drums,” said Kylon. “We’ve seen the Grand Wazir’s army?”

“I assume so,” said Strabane. “We’ll know soon enough.” Again Tanzir’s drums boomed out. “That’s the call for battle assembly. The emir wouldn’t call for battle assembly unless we saw the enemy.”

“Bad place for it,” said Kylon. The Trabazon steppes were mostly flat, but here and there wide ravines marked the plains. Last night the rebel army had camped alongside one of those ravines, a deep V-shaped gash in the earth, its sides lined with weathered boulders. That kept any enemies from approaching the army from the west, but it also meant a clever commander could pin the rebels against that ravine. Erghulan Amirasku did not seem that clever.

Maybe Rhataban was.

Strabane shrugged, and they reached the heart of the camp. As before, Tanzir and Sulaman and the chief captains of the host had placed their tents upon a low hill. With the flat plains around them, it commanded an excellent view. From the hill’s top Kylon saw the army arranging itself battle. The Kaltari warriors and the southern militia formed up in the center, bristling with sword and spear and shield. Before them waited the tribes of Istarish nomads upon their horses, short bows ready. On the left and the right wings gathered the heavy horsemen, the guards of the emirs themselves and the mercenary companies Tanzir had hired. Most of Kylon’s experience of war had been aboard ships, but he saw Tanzir’s and Nasser’s plan well enough. The Istarish skirmishers would draw the enemy in, and the Kaltari and the footmen would meet them. Once the enemy footmen had committed, the heavy horse could charge and break their lines. It was a good plan, and Kylon saw Nasser’s and Martin’s hands in it.

A good plan…but only if the enemy cooperated.

Kylon doubted that the Grand Wazir would oblige.

To the north, perhaps three miles away, he saw the advancing mass of the Grand Wazir’s army. At this distance the masses of troops were indistinct blurs, but Kylon picked out their formations. The Immortals massed in the center, thousands of them. Behind them came lighter infantry in spiked helmets and chain mail, veterans from Istarinmul’s wars who had remained loyal to the Grand Wazir. On either side of the infantry waited wings of heavy horsemen, emirs and their personal guards, armed with spear and lance and sword.

It was a formidable force, but the activity behind it concerned Kylon even more.

The Grand Wazir’s engineers were constructing catapults. That in itself was not alarming. Catapults were a danger, but they were difficult to aim and in the fluid conditions of a battle, were as much a danger to their own men as to the enemy. Yet Kylon had seen the Grand Wazir’s men pulling carts of Hellfire, and Tibraim’s scouts had spotted hundreds of amphorae of Hellfire in the Grand Wazir’s supply train, all of it guarded by Immortals and Alchemists. That much Hellfire, unleashed at a charging army, could decide the battle. Tanzir’s army had a smaller supply of Hellfire, stolen from the fortresses in southern Istarinmul, but the rebels had planned to hold it in reserve for the siege of the city.

Without the Hellfire engines, Kylon thought Tanzir’s army had a solid chance of defeating the Grand Wazir. But with those engines in the mix…

He shook his head and followed Strabane to the emir’s banner. Tanzir Shahan stood there, wearing his armor, not far from Sulaman and Mazyan. Gathered around them was Nasser, Laertes, Lord Martin, Lady Claudia, Kazravid, Shopur, and the other chief commanders of the army.

“My lord headman,” said Tanzir. “Thank you for coming.”

Strabane grunted. “I wouldn’t want to miss a fight.”

“It seems,” said Nasser, calm as ever, “that the enemy stole a march on us. Likely the Grand Wazir marched his troops through the night, and formed up in battle array once the scouts spotted us.”

“At least his troops will be tired from the march,” said Kazravid, “and ours shall be fresh.”

“Hellfire doesn’t care if a man’s exhausted or wide-awake when it burns him,” said Strabane.

“It does not,” said Sulaman. “It is the most terrible weapon the Alchemists of the College ever devised. For it to be used against the sons of Istarinmul is grievous indeed.”

“But it seems to me,” said Tanzir, “that our enemy has made a mistake.”

“Oh?” said Nasser. “How so?”

“The catapults,” said Tanzir, waving an armored hand at the distant shapes. The enemy engineers had assembled six of the catapults, and Kylon saw carts of Hellfire amphorae waiting next to each of the siege engines. “Catapults like that have a limited range…ah…”

“For a missile the size of an amphora of Hellfire, about a mile or so, my lord,” said Laertes. “A shorter distance if they want to throw multiple amphorae at once. Likely they will.”

“In effect, they have pinned themselves in place with their weapons,” said Tanzir. “They will want to fight within range of them, so they can bring the Hellfire to bear against our men. That means we can be sure they will not venture more than a mile from their catapults, not unless we force them to do so.”

“I agree,” said Martin.

Kylon nodded, a little surprised. He had missed that himself, but Tanzir’s logic rang true. Caina had spoken well of Tanzir’s intellect, but Kylon had not been entirely convinced the emir’s talents extended to practical matters. It seemed that Caina’s judgment had been correct.

“How do you suggest we proceed, then?” said Sulaman.

“I am open to suggestions,” said Tanzir.

“It seems like the Grand Wazir is treating his catapults like a fortress,” said Strabane. “That means this is a siege. Send the Istarish nomads to harass them, and bands of Kaltari to raid them. We can move fast enough to escape and avoid the Hellfire engines, and sooner or later we will provoke the enemy into a rash response. Then we can take them.”

“Caution would be best, though,” said Nasser. “The Grand Wazir may be trying to lure us into a clever trap.”

Martin snorted. “The Grand Wazir isn’t that clever.”

“No, I fear he is not,” said Tanzir. “One of his advisors may be, though. Is he planning something sorcerous, perhaps?”

“I have not detected any spells from the army,” said Claudia. She had donned chain mail and leather armor over her riding gown. Kylon sensed irritation in her emotional sense, but she had to recognize the necessity of armor.

“Nor have I,” said Kylon.

“Very well,” said Tanzir, rubbing his jaw. He looked older for a moment. Kylon recognized that expression. He had ordered men to their deaths before, and he knew what it felt like. “Headman, your plan seems good to me, so we shall pursue it. Once the army has moved into battle formation, we shall select bands of Istarish nomads and Kaltari warriors to…”

“Wait,” said Kazravid. “My lord emir, they are doing something.”

A band of horsemen rode from the enemy lines, flanked by a score of Immortals. The lead rider flew the Padishah’s banner, and below that rippled the personal banner of Erghulan Amirasku, Grand Wazir of Istarinmul. One of the horsemen wore white armor, a brilliant white cloak streaming from his shoulders. Even from a distance, Kylon recognized the Master Alchemist Rhataban.

He also started to feel the malice of the nagataaru housed in the Master Alchemist’s flesh.

“I think,” said Martin, shielding his eyes, “I think that is Erghulan himself.”

One of the other horsemen raised a lance, and a white banner billowed from its end.

“A parley,” said Tanzir. “It seems that the Grand Wazir wishes to speak.”

“Come forth!” thundered a voice from the band of horsemen. The voice was faint, but audible. Likely Rhataban was using a spell to augment the herald’s voice. “Come forth! Erghulan Amirasku, Grand Wazir of Istarinmul and Captain of the Towers of the Sea, invites the emir Tanzir Shahan and his allies to come forth in parley. Your safety is guaranteed by the solemn oath of the Grand Wazir.”

For a moment no one said anything, and then the herald started to repeat his message.

“The solemn oath of the Grand Wazir,” said Kylon, “means nothing at all. He is Callatas’s puppet and nothing more. Likely Rhataban is holding his strings.”

“I know,” said Tanzir, face grim.

“Yet Lord Tanzir cannot refuse the invitation to parley,” said Nasser. “To do so would be an admission of cowardice.”

“It would also,” said Kylon, “but a perfect opportunity for the Red Huntress to strike.”

“I know,” said Tanzir, taking a deep breath. “Lord Kylon, I request that you accompany me to the parley. If the Red Huntress reveals herself, you are the one among us with the best chance of overcoming her.”

“I shall accompany you as well, with your permission,” said Nasser, and Laertes nodded. “The Huntress and I have crossed swords before.”

“And I, as well,” said Sulaman.

“Forgive me, lord prince, but is that wise?” said Tanzir.

“It’s not,” said Nasser at once. “Your presence, Prince Kutal Sulaman, provides legitimacy to this entire army If you are slain, we go from loyal men supporting the legitimate ruler of Istarinmul to a band of rebels rampaging through the countryside.”

“It is not wise,” said Sulaman, “but it is necessary. If I am to ask men to die fighting for me, then I cannot turn away from the same risk. That, and we have an advantage.” He gestured at Mazyan. “My Oath Shadow will accompany us. Both you and Lord Kylon have seen his prowess in combat. If the Huntress chooses this moment to strike, Mazyan’s aid may be invaluable.”

Kylon started to object, but fell silent. Sulaman had a point. Mazyan had carved his way through the Immortals at the Desert Maiden with ease. If Kylon was to fight the Huntress again, he would prefer to have both Mazyan and Nasser at his side.

Or if he had to fight Rhataban again, for that matter.

“Very well,” said Tanzir. “Strabane, Shopur. Choose an escort from your soldiers. We will meet the Grand Wazir, and see what he has to say.”

The escort assembled, and Tanzir, Sulaman, Mazyan, Nasser, and Laertes rode out from the army, Laertes holding a lance flying a white banner. A troop of Kaltari warriors and mercenary horsemen accompanied the captains, and Kylon walked alongside them, the valikon loose in its sheath. Tanzir had offered him a horse, but Kylon had turned it down. He fought better on his feet, and did not want to waste valuable seconds in the event of a fight.

Against foes like the Huntress and Rhataban, seconds made the difference between life and death.

They rode a mile and a half from the rebel army, stopping ten yards from the Grand Wazir’s embassy. Belatedly Kylon wondered if this had been a ruse to lure them within range of the Hellfire catapults, but the engines were too far away, and any shot of Hellfire would likely wipe out the Grand Wazir’s embassy.

Or, for that matter, the Grand Wazir himself.

Erghulan Amirasku sat astride his horse, glaring at them, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was in his late fifties, still fit and strong despite his age, with a hard face and a hooked nose than made him look like a hunting hawk. He wore elaborate plate armor, its edges silvered, a jeweled scimitar hanging at his belt, a velvet cloak thrown back from his shoulders. The armor looked expensive and ostentatious to the point of absurdity, and Kylon could just imagine the cutting observation Caina would have made.

He wished he could have heard it.

Next to the Grand Wazir waited Rhataban, helmet resting upon the horn of his saddle. It seemed the nagataaru had healed the damage Kylon had inflicted upon him. Rhataban’s black eyes fell upon Kylon, and for a moment a flicker of purple fire went through his gaze, the fury and rage of the nagataaru pulsing against Kylon’s senses.

He wondered if the Grand Wazir knew of Callatas’s plans. He wondered if Erghulan would have cared if he knew.

The two embassies stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

At last Tanzir cleared his throat. “We are here at your invitation, Grand Wazir. I assume you have something you wish to say?”

“Well, well,” said Erghulan. “It is quite the collection of rabble you convinced to join your little ill-advised rebellion, Tanzir. Anshani mercenaries, Kaltari hillmen,” his eyes flicked over Kylon and Nasser, “along with an exiled Kyracian failure and a wanted criminal. Such powerful allies. And…”

Erghulan saw Sulaman, and he fell silent.

“Grand Wazir Erghulan,” said Sulaman, his voice calm and clear. “It has been a long time.”

“What are you doing here?” said Erghulan. “Callatas said…” He drew himself up. “Prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon. You honor us with your presence.” He glared at Tanzir. “It seems you have fallen in with liars and rebels, my lord prince. Please, come with us, and we shall return you to Istarinmul and your rightful place in the Golden Palace.”

“There is no need,” said Sulaman. “Rather, I extend an invitation to you in turn.”

“Oh?” said Erghulan. “And what invitation is that?”

“Turn from this madness,” said Sulaman. “Abandon the Grand Master and join us. You have seen the ruin Callatas wrought upon Istarinmul. He murdered our subjects in his laboratories to produce his wraithblood…”

“Lies,” said Erghulan. “Tanzir has been telling you falsehoods.”

“He set the Slavers’ Brotherhood to kidnap the innocent and sell them illegally into slavery,” said Sulaman.

“More lies,” said Erghulan.

“And he allied with dark powers, selling Istarinmul to devils in exchange for a false dream of power,” said Sulaman. “You have aided him in his work, I know, and have been rewarded with power and prestige. Yet you are a noble of Istarinmul. You have seen firsthand Callatas’s evil, again and again and again. It is not too late. You can turn back.”

Erghulan snorted. “You think to defeat the Grand Master? He has given his support to your father the Padishah, and you rebel against the Most Divine Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon…”

“My father is either dead or a prisoner,” said Sulaman. “Callatas murdered my brothers, and only I remained free. You helped his crimes, but you can be free of him. Yes, I mean to defeat the Grand Master. I mean to kill him or drive him from Istarinmul. I mean to smash his wraithblood laboratories and undo every evil he has done. I mean to restore sound government and justice to Istarinmul so that our nation may flourish once more. It is not too late for you, Erghulan. Whatever hold Callatas has over you, whatever threats he has made, you can escape them and you can be free of him.”

Erghulan said nothing for a while.

“You truly think that you can defeat him?” said Erghulan. “You don’t know his power.”

“Grand Wazir,” said Rhataban, but Erghulan raised a hand, and the Master Alchemist fell silent.

“I mean to try,” said Sulaman. “No man can see the future. Not even I, with the gift of the Tarshahzon blood, can see the outcome of this battle. But it must be done. Istarinmul has bled in the Grand Master’s corrupt grip long enough. It is time for his misrule to end, and I mean to see his evil stopped. Your help would be welcome, Erghulan.”

For a long moment Erghulan said nothing, his emotional sense unsettled, and Kylon wondered if the Grand Wazir would actually do it.

Then scorn flooded his sense, and Erghulan laughed.

“Enough!” said Erghulan, sneering. “I have had enough of lies!”

“I agree,” said Sulaman calmly.

“You think I do not know the truth?” said Erghulan. “You think I am a mindless dupe of the Grand Master? Fool!” He struck his armored fist against his saddle horn, and his horse whinnied in distress. “I know everything! Who do you think forced the Brotherhood to sell him slaves? Who do you think hired the Kindred to work for him? Who do you think let him build wraithblood laboratories in the Widow’s Tower and the Craven’s Tower and a dozen other fortresses of the realm? Who do you think instructed the Teskilati to hunt down the Grand Master’s enemies and purge the Ghost circle form Istarinmul? I, Erghulan Amirasku, did these things, freely and of my own will!”

“Why?” said Sulaman, still calm. “Why did you commit such appalling crimes?”

Erghulan smiled. “For something no Padishah can provide. Immortality and power beyond imagination! When the Grand Master finishes his spell, he shall summon Kotuluk Iblis himself to this world. Those of us who have been the Grand Master’s loyal friends shall receive nagataaru spirits into our flesh,” he waved a hand at Rhataban, “and we shall rule over the rabble of mankind for all eternity as…”

Kylon burst out laughing. He could not stop himself.

“Do you find something amusing, Kyracian?” snapped Erghulan.

“You are a fool,” said Kylon. “Callatas will discard you the moment he has what he wants. Even if he is telling the truth, his plan will fail. You won’t become the immortal lords of mankind. The nagataaru will rampage across the face of the earth. Even if you survive, you’ll have nothing left to rule but ruins and bones.”

“Bah,” said Erghulan. “As if I would heed the counsel of a fool exiled from his own nation. And a fool who chose skullduggery and treachery instead of honorable exile! Aye, Cassander Nilas told us about you, Kylon of House Kardamnos! You could have taken the traditional path of an exile and become a privateer in the service of the Padishah or a captain of mercenaries. Instead you threw your lot in with the murderous spy Caina Amalas, and you shall share her fate.”

Kylon glanced at Nasser, and an idea came to him.

“I am not surprised that you would praise Lord Cassander,” said Kylon, “given that you sold Istarinmul to him.”

Erghulan scowled. “That is a lie!”

“A voice thundering from the skies proclaimed it,” said Kylon. “A million people in Istarinmul heard it. You and Callatas betrayed Istarinmul to the Umbarian Order…”

“Lies!” said Erghulan. “Cassander betrayed us.”

“Which is it, Erghulan?” said Tanzir. “You betrayed Istarinmul to the Umbarians, or Cassander tricked you and almost destroyed the city under your watch? Either way, your skill at governance seems as lacking as your prowess as a hunter…”

That did it.

Lord Martin had said nothing irritated Erghulan Amirasku like having his abilities as a hunter questioned. The Grand Wazir stiffened in his saddle, his eyes blazing, and pointed at Tanzir.

“You will be silent, you bloated bag of suet,” snarled Erghulan. “What do you know of ruling? What do you know of war? Perhaps you learned wisdom with your nose buried in a book, but I doubt it.” He glared at them. “Today you will receive an education in war unlike any you have ever seen before!”

“Grand Wazir…” started Rhataban.

Erghulan kept ranting. “I give you once chance to surrender…”

“I am the lawful heir to my father’s throne,” said Sulaman. His voice stayed calm, but it somehow cut through Erghulan’s shouting. “Perhaps you ought to surrender to us.”

“Grand Master Callatas rules Istarinmul, not you, and not your fat slug of a father,” said Erghulan. “I will give you once chance to surrender. Tanzir Shahan will be allowed to disband his armies and return peacefully to the Vale of Fallen Stars, and Prince Sulaman shall accompany us to the Golden Palace.”

“And if we do not?” said Tanzir.

“Then run back to your books and epic poems, boy,” said Erghulan. “See if they will save you from the storm to come. I will rain Hellfire down upon you, and I shall slaughter your rebels and line the roads with their corpses. I will leave you impaled upon the walls of Istarinmul, screaming out your last as the ravens eat your eyes, and you,” he pointed at Sulaman, “will return to the Golden Palace and whatever fate the Grand Master plans for you.”

“Truly, a compelling offer,” said Tanzir, “but I believe I speak for the Prince and the emirs of the south when I decline. We trusted to your good judgment before, Erghulan, and what did it bring us? The Brotherhood terrorized the farmers of the southern emirates. Cassander Nilas almost destroyed Istarinmul, and Callatas’s experiments have filled the streets with wraithblood addicts. No, we are done trusting you, and we shall demonstrate our resolve with sword and spear.”

“Bold words,” said Erghulan. “Rejoice that I gave you my word, Tanzir Shahan, else I would cut your fat head from your neck here and now.” He turned his horse. “Your safe conduct lasts until you return to your lines. Get out of my sight.”

“Lord Kylon,” said Rhataban.

Kylon looked at the Master Alchemist. Rhataban sat motionless atop his horse, but the shadow and purple fire of the nagataaru seemed to flicker within his dark eyes.

“What?” said Kylon.

“I’m going to kill you,” said Rhataban.

“Now?” said Kylon. His hand itched to grasp the valikon’s familiar hilt. “You’re welcome to try it and see what happens.”

“I shall honor the Grand Wazir’s given word,” said Rhataban. “But I will still find you during the battle, and I will kill you. And then, after you are dead and the rebels are crushed, I shall find the Balarigar and slay her. Perhaps I shall lay your rotting head before her before she dies, so she knows that you have failed yet again. Perhaps I shall let the Immortals enjoy her for a few days before I finally put her out of her misery.”

Kylon stared at the Master Alchemist, the rage pulsing through him…and then another idea came to him.

“Assuming that the Huntress does not find her first,” said Kylon.

“The Red Huntress?” said Khabatan. “A madwoman. She does not understand the true purpose of the Grand Master’s great work. She is a wanton harlot who kills for pleasure and nothing more. Once the Apotheosis is finished and the new humanity arises, there will be no further need for her.”

“Are you so sure?” said Kylon. “I fought you, and I fought the Huntress. The Huntress was death made flesh. She carved through the lords of New Kyre and none of them could stop her. You, though…next to her, you’re just an idiot with a hammer.”

Rhataban remained motionless, but the purple fire all but blazed in his eyes.

“You will regret those words bitterly,” he said, “before you die.”

“I doubt that,” said Kylon, “but you can believe whatever makes you feel better.”

“Enough!” snarled Erghulan, gesturing to his emirs and Immortals. “Beg to the Living Flame to show you mercy, Tanzir and Sulaman, for I shall surely not.”

The embassy rode towards the waiting army, and the drums began to boom out.

“Well,” said Tanzir, signaling for them to return to their own lines, “wasn’t that pleasant?”

Chapter 17: My Motives Were Pure

Caina had done a lot of grim things in her life, but the night march through the jungles of Pyramid Isle was one of the more unpleasant ones.

The heat and humidity of the jungle did not lessen as the night wore on, and sweat dripped down her face, sticking to her clothes. Insects buzzed and wobbled through the leaves, and Caina had to brush them off her neck every few paces. The terrain was uneven and muddy, but at least there was enough light to see. Caina had shifted her pyrikon to its staff form, a pale white light shining from its tip like an eerie torch. It wasn’t much light, but it did keep them from tripping and breaking their necks…and it gave them a few extra moments of warning when the nagataaru approached.

For the undead baboons and Immortals had not given up their search.

They moved constantly through the forest. After the first dozen encounters, Caina realized they were sweeping the jungle in a search pattern. The undead creatures were tireless, and they would not stop searching until they found their quarry or Kharnaces destroyed the world and made the search moot.

Fortunately, the limited understanding of the material world possessed by the nagataaru meant that neither the baboons nor the Immortals made any effort at stealth, smashing through the underbrush and making a great deal of noise. They could hear the undead coming from a long way off, and Caina and the others had no trouble evading them.

The downside was that they didn’t dare stop to rest. A single mistake, and the nagataaru would swarm them. Caina and the others had fought their way free at the beach, but she did not want to risk it again. For that matter, Callatas might decide he had no further need of allies, and abandon them to the nagataaru. Best to avoid the moment of crisis for as long as possible.

So Caina kept walking towards the white hill, accompanied by two of her friends and two of the most dangerous enemies she had ever faced.

And perhaps the worst part of the miserable walk was that Kalgri would simply not shut up.

“You should stay quiet,” said Caina.

“Why?” said the Huntress, and she giggled. “They can’t hear us. They’re dead. Their ears don’t work.” She stepped forward and waved her arms in the direction of an Immortal crashing through the trees. “Hey! Right here! You’re looking for us. Come and get us!”

The Immortal did not turn, its armor clanking.

“You see?” said Kalgri, glancing back at Caina, her teeth flashing white in the cowl of her shadow-cloak. “They can’t find us. So we can talk all we want. We can catch up! Just us girls, eh?” She glanced at Annarah. “Not that I wish to chat with a loremaster of Iramis, mind.”

“I fear the feeling is mutual,” said Annarah.

Caina glanced at Callatas, but the Grand Master said nothing, his face impassive. Likely he didn’t care. Likely he knew Kalgri’s taunts would irritate Caina, perhaps drive her into doing something rash.

“You know,” said Morgant, “I never thought I would say this, but it’s entire possible you talk too damn much for an assassin.”

Kalgri laughed. “You’re one to talk. I followed the Balarigar for months, you know. I was hiding under the floorboards when our dear Annarah unlocked her journal and told you where to find the Staff and the Seal.”

Kalgri had been there? Caina had known that Kalgri had followed her around Istarinmul for months, but she hadn’t realized that the Huntress had been so close.

“Then you should have told Callatas at once,” said Caina, “and saved yourself much trouble.”

“Yes,” said Callatas. “You should have. Your reckless lust for death has caused me much…”

“Father, father,” said Kalgri, and his expression tightened. “I confronted our dear Balarigar once before, and look how that ended! I really didn’t want to get thrown off the side of a mountain again.” She shrugged, the shadow-cloak rippling around her. “I wanted to maneuver Caina and Cassander into killing each other, and then take the relics from the rubble. It worked halfway.”

“Halfway,” growled Callatas, “is not enough.”

“Father dearest,” said Kalgri, “I did exactly as you told me. I brought death to your enemies, and I told you where to find the relics. It is not my fault that the minute you picked up the relics, Kharnaces crooked his finger and you came running at his call like a good dog.”

Caina half-expected Callatas to erupt in fury at the insult, but the Grand Master only glared, the cords in his neck standing out as he gritted his teeth.

Kalgri did, after all, have a point.

“Ah!” said Morgant.

“What?” said Caina.

“I’ve realized what the Grand Master’s chief failing is,” said Morgant.

“Oh?” said Callatas, picking his way around a fallen tree. “Do enlighten me, assassin.”

“You promised to open the Starfall Straits to Cassander if he killed Caina, and then failed to pay him,” said Morgant.

“Obviously, he failed,” said Callatas, “given that the Balarigar is walking in front of us right now.”

“But he thought he had killed Caina,” said Morgant, pointing at Kalgri. “Which, by the way, is your problem. Chronic lying.”

Again Kalgri’s smile glinted in the depths of her cowl, accompanied by a flicker of purple fire. “Lies are often more efficient at killing than knives.”

“Exactly,” said Morgant. “Anyway. Your problem, Grand Master, is that you have a bad habit of forgetting to pay your hirelings. See, if you had paid me for that mural, maybe you would have learned better habits, and then…”

“Blood and damnation!” roared Callatas. “The fate of humanity hangs in the balance, and you continue to quibble about that damned mural! If I had known that I would have to listen to you whine about it decades later, I would have killed you then and there to save myself the bother!”

“But you didn’t,” said Morgant.

Callatas said nothing more, glaring into the jungle.

“As I was saying,” said Kalgri, “I followed Caina for months. Studying her, watching her, preparing for when I would strike. I even left little presents for her. Do you remember them? The curved knives. They made you so paranoid!”

“Given that you were stalking me,” said Caina, “a little paranoia was necessary.”

“My favorite,” said Kalgri, “was right after the Inferno. You were going to see Kylon. You got all dressed up, and then saw the curved knife in the dust and changed your mind. Maybe you were wiser back then. You realized that luring him into your bed was a bad idea.”

Caina said nothing.

“Really, you ought to get down on your knees and thank me,” said Kalgri.

Still Caina said nothing.

“You should to thank me for killing Kylon’s wife,” said Kalgri.

“What?” said Caina, anger getting the better of her tongue. “Why the hell would I do a vile thing like that?”

“Because if I hadn’t killed his wife,” said Kalgri, “he would never have taken a second look at you. Why should he have done so? He was one of the richest and most powerful men in New Kyre. His wife was beautiful and devoted to him, and once he tired of her, he could take as many mistresses as he wished. And all of them, every single one of them, could do what you could not. They could give him children, as many children as he wished. I wonder how long until he realizes he can do far better than a barren spy.”

Caina said nothing. She knew that Kalgri was trying to get under skin. It was a crueler version of the game Morgant played…and like Morgant, Kalgri had identified Caina’s weak point. A little dark voice in her head whispered that the Red Huntress was perhaps right. Kylon was only with Caina because the Huntress had murdered his wife and the Assembly had banished him. If the banishment was ever lifted, if he could go home and find a Kyracian wife to bear him Kyracian sons…would he do it?

Maybe it would be better for him, the dark voice whispered, if he did.

“Well?” said Kalgri. “You have nothing to say to that.”

Caina took a deep breath. “I think you’re trying to get us killed.”

“Obviously,” said Kalgri.

“No,” said Caina. “I think you’re trying to get me angry enough that I’ll do something stupid and blunder into one of the nagataaru. Then they can tear us apart, and you can watch and laugh and feast on our deaths. If you don’t get me angry, then you’ll start on Annarah, start taunting her about Iramis or the other loremasters or something.”

Morgant laughed. “Clever.”

Kalgri snorted. “As if…”

“Enough,” snapped Callatas. “The Apotheosis will not happen if we are all killed here because you could not control your tongue. Be silent.”

Kalgri, thankfully, stopped talking. Though Caina suspected it wasn’t because of the Grand Master’s command, but because she realized the tactic would no longer be effective and was thinking of something else. Caina glanced at Callatas, and saw him staring back at her.

She did not like the hungry way he looked at her.

###

Callatas took a careful step over a fallen tree, using the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis to enhance his stamina. Given how exhausted the ordeal in the netherworld and his rejuvenation had left him, it was necessary. Several times, Callatas had reached for the shadow, trying to use it to command the lesser nagataaru infesting the island to do his bidding. If he could command them, he could send the undead at Caina and her allies in a rush.

Yet the lesser nagataaru would not obey him, which meant that Kotuluk Iblis had commanded them not to obey him.

It made a grim sort of sense. Both the Voice and the Harbinger had presented Kotuluk Iblis with competing plans on how to consume the world. Now Kotuluk Iblis was putting both plans to the test, seeing which one would prevail. Callatas thought that rather inefficient, but Kotuluk Iblis was eternal. A few centuries meant nothing to a creature like the sovereign of the nagataaru.

No matter. Callatas would prevail. Kotuluk Iblis and his nagataaru vassals thought to devour the world, but Callatas knew better. He would harness the nagataaru just as men had harnessed horses and oxen long ago, and he would use them to create a superior humanity, one free of the corrupting effects of civilization.

He just had to survive long enough to do it.

He just had to defeat Kharnaces, or even better, maneuver Caina and Kharnaces into destroying each other.

Victory was within his grasp…but only if he remained in control of himself long enough to seize it.

That might prove difficult.

The Elixir Rejuvenata had restored him, but it had given him the body of a young man, with all of a young man’s impulses. Anger burned through him at the slightest setback, and time and time again he resisted the urge to lash out in fury.

And the other urges…

He watched as Caina climbed over another fallen tree, her shadow-cloak flaring to the side. As she did, her trousers pressed tight against her backside, and to his immense annoyance, Callatas found himself momentarily transfixed by the sight. He wondered what her legs looked like. Given how often she ran for her life, they would be strong and sculpted. Maybe the rest of her naked body looked the same way, lean and fit, and he wondered how that body would feel underneath his own…

With a hiss of annoyance, Callatas pushed the thoughts out of his head. The Elixir Rejuvenata had its perils. Under better circumstances, Callatas would have rested for several weeks after drinking a vial of the Elixir. Though under better circumstances, he would have been in Istarinmul and Caina Amalas would have been his prisoner, kneeling before him in chains, and he could have forced her to do whatever he wished…

Again he shoved the persistent urges from his mind. Old age, for all its irritations, did have one advantage. The appetites of the flesh cooled, allowing his mind to focus on more important matters.

“Why?” said Annarah.

Wrapped in his thoughts, the rest of his attention focused upon watching for Kharnaces’s servitors, it took Callatas a moment to realize that Annarah was speaking to him.

“What?” he said, blinking. She was an attractive woman, but his lust had not fixated on her the way it had upon Caina. Long ago she had been his student, and intimate relations between a loremaster and an initiate had been strictly forbidden. Callatas had burned Iramis to ashes, and he had transcended the moral strictures of the weak. Yet it seemed that law still bound him. It was humorous, in a peculiar sort of way.

His lust had not fixated upon Kalgri because taking the Huntress into his bed would have been like taking a poisonous snake into his bath.

“Why did you do it?” said Annarah. Her face was tight, her green eyes hard, her hair a silver shimmer in the glow from Caina’s pyrikon staff.

“Do what?” said Callatas, irritated.

“All of it,” said Annarah. “Everything you have done. You burned Iramis, and you murdered everyone you ever knew. I have seen the other things you have done. Istarinmul was always a harsh land, but you have twisted it, poisoned it with wraithblood, and filled it with slaves and killers. Why?”

“Because,” said Morgant, “the sort of man who would refuse to pay for a mural is the sort of man who would do those things.”

“Clearly,” said Caina.

“My purposes are beyond your comprehension,” said Callatas. “Beyond any of your comprehension…”

“Do not patronize me,” said Annarah. He had known her most of her life, and he had rarely heard her sound so angry. “I know what you intend. You think to fuse the nagataaru with the wraithblood addicts to create a new kind of humanity, a sort of hybrid.” She made an angry gesture, the slender bronze chains on her left hand rattling. “You want to fill the world with creatures like the Huntress.”

“Then you know my purpose,” said Callatas.

“But why?” said Annarah. “I know your purpose, but by the Divine, by the blood of all those you have murdered, why? Why have you done these terrible things? I knew you! You were Callatas the Wise, the greatest loremaster of Iramis. Kings and princes and lords from across the world came to you for healing and counsel.”

“They were fools,” said Callatas. “They were symptoms of all is wrong with the world.”

“I remember the first day I was sent to the Towers of Lore for training after I had manifested the power,” said Annarah. “I was so frightened. I hid in the great hall of the Tower of Time and cried. You found me…”

“Yes,” said Callatas, blinking. He had forgotten that. There had been so many students, and this had been before…

“You told me that it was all right to be afraid,” said Annarah, “for the loremasters had a grave responsibility. You said we were the keepers of the Words of Lore, the words given by the Divine to the first men of Iramis in the dawn of ages. We were the guardians of the world against the abuse of sorcery and the creatures of the netherworld. We were the best healers in the world, and we would have the chance to help more people than anyone else.”

“Yes,” said Callatas, remembering. “I did say that.”

“Then why,” said Annarah, her voice growing anguished, “then why did you forsake it all?”

“Because I was wrong,” said Callatas.

“What?” said Annarah, incredulous. “You were not wrong. You were Callatas the Wise! You lived those words! You…”

“I was wrong!” said Callatas.

The words came out of him in a shout. He hadn’t intended that.

“You weren’t,” said Annarah. “The calling of the loremasters was a noble one…”

“It was folly,” said Callatas. “Utter and complete folly. We could not save the world. We could not even help the world. At best we could ameliorate the symptoms, but that was all.”

“You are wrong,” said Annarah. “We could…”

“We could not solve anything!” said Callatas, still shouting. “The problem is the nature of man itself. The problem is civilization…”

“Just as you told me,” said Caina, “at Master Ulvan’s ascension to the rank of cowled master.”

Callatas blinked, and then the memory flashed through his mind. There had been a circus at the ascension, and there had been a dancing girl who had thrown knives. Ulvan had lusted after her in a most undignified fashion. At the time, Callatas had barely noticed her.

“That was you?” said Callatas, astonished.

“You told me civilization was an abomination, a corruption,” said Caina. “You said that it exemplified everything that was wrong with humanity, that the only thing perfectible about man was our nature as killers.”

“Yes,” said Callatas. He had said that to her, hadn’t he? How could he have known that a knife-throwing girl from a circus would almost kill him two years later? It beggared belief…but it was a reminder that not even he could see the future. “What is perfectible about man?”

“Nothing,” said Annarah. “Nothing is perfectible about mankind. We are flawed, and we must learn to live with our flaws.”

“No,” said Callatas. “You are wrong. There is something perfectible about humanity. The only thing perfectible. Our nature as killers. Civilization weakens us, enfeebles us, makes us dependent upon money and trade and other such corruptions. We are slaves to our bellies, are we not? I sought for a better way. A way to make mankind immortal, a way to perfect our savage nature and cast off the trappings of civilization.”

“And that is why you came here,” said Caina.

“I thought Maatish necromancy might suffice,” said Callatas, “but Kharnaces told me about the nagataaru, and I realized that they would allow me to transform humanity into a new and better form…”

“But why?” said Annarah.

Callatas scowled. “I told you why, child. I…”

“What was it?” said Annarah. “What drove you to this? We might likely die in the next few hours, and before I die, I want to know why you betrayed Iramis, the Prince, the loremasters, and everyone who ever admired you and respected you.” She swallowed. “I want to know why you betrayed me.”

For a long time Callatas said nothing, contempt for her weakness filling him. Yet some other emotion stirred in him, something he had not felt for a long time.

Was it pity?

Annarah was too stupid and sentimental to see the truth of his plan, the splendor of the Apotheosis he would bring to mankind. She would die when the Apotheosis came. Perhaps she deserved to know the truth.

Perhaps he wanted to talk about this, to make her see the truth.

“Iramis,” said Callatas, “was the height of human civilization. Other nations might claim that title, but in Iramis it was true. There were no slaves. The Prince and the priests of the Divine saw that no one went hungry, and there was work for everyone willing to do it. In other lands sorcerers ruled and enslaved their people, but in Iramis, the loremasters protected the people from corrupt sorcery. Our valikarion wandered the world, hunting those who abused the gift of arcane talent. The word of the Prince and the knowledge of the loremasters was respected across the world. And still…it was corrupt. Still it twisted those within it. Iramis was the pinnacle of mankind, and yet still it was a corrupt abomination.”

“What are you talking about?” said Annarah. “There were evildoers in Iramis, yes. There are evildoers in every nation, which is why kings and princes bear the sword so that wrongdoers may be punished. But there was nothing in Iramis like the Brotherhood of Slavers or the Umbarian Order.”

“There was a girl,” said Callatas.

“A girl?” said Annarah.

“One day I walked in the Princes’ Bazaar below the Towers of Lore,” said Callatas, his voice distant. “Merchants came there to buy and sell from across the world. I saw a girl weeping in an alley, a Caerish girl from the Empire. There were many Caers in Iramis in those days, fleeing the civil wars between the Emperor and the Magisterium that marked the end of the Fourth Empire. I did not speak Caerish in those days, but I could see that her arm had been broken. I healed her, but she fled from me, and I could not find her.”

“What happened?” said Caina.

“The Prince’s Guard found her dead two days later,” said Callatas, remembering. “She had been a slave, in Iramis where there were no slaves. So many were fleeing for their lives in those days, hoping to get away from the war between the Emperor and the Magisterium. So an enterprising Iramisian merchant had an idea. He started a home for young women fleeing the war, offering them food and drink…”

“But in exchange,” said Caina in a hard, quiet voice, “he forced them to whore for his customers.”

Callatas blinked. “How did you know?”

“It’s a very old story,” said Caina.

“The girl had been looking for help,” said Callatas. “She had escaped from her imprisonment, breaking her arm in the process. I healed her…and the merchant recaptured her. Fearing discovery of his crimes, he started to slaughter his slaves to ensure their silence, which was when the Prince’s Guard interrupted him.”

“I remember that,” said Annarah. “It was a very grave crime.”

“Yes,” said Callatas, rubbing his thumb against the smooth metal of the Staff.

“That merchant’s crime,” said Annarah, “was a serious one. I remember it well. I had no idea you knew anything about it.”

“You should have paid better attention, then,” said Callatas.

“It was a serious crime,” said Annarah, “but what you have done since…the blood that merchant spilled is but a single drop in the oceans of blood spilled from your victims. Is that why? Because you failed to save one girl?”

“That girl showed me the truth,” said Callatas.

“What truth?” said Caina.

They had come to a stop in a small gap in the trees. Both Morgant and Kalgri looked irritated at the halt. Callatas knew that they were right, that they should continue towards the Tomb of Kharnaces. At the moment he was too angry to care. Why could they not see the truth? Why could they not understand?

He would make them understand.

“That civilization corrupts,” said Callatas. “That it makes humanity weaker and flawed. That instead of perfecting us, it…”

“That is nonsense!” said Caina. “An evil man did an evil thing. That is sad, yes, but because of that one evil thing you’re going to kill everyone in the world and replace them with monsters like the Huntress?”

“It showed me,” said Callatas, “that civilization was corrupt…”

“How?” demanded Caina. Her cool mask was starting to crack, anger and contempt bubbling to the surface. Somehow that made Callatas angrier. How dare this lying spy presume to sit in judgment upon him! “How did it show you that civilization was corrupt? Had the merchant bribed the magistrates?”

“Yes,” said Callatas, wondering how she had known.

“And what happened to them when the truth came out?” said Caina.

“They were executed,” said Callatas. “Slaving was illegal in Iramis, and so was taking bribes. Prince Nasser had them all executed and the remaining slaves freed.”

“And from that you decide the world was corrupt and had to die?” said Caina, her scorn plain. “Some men committed crimes and were executed. That’s not corruption, that’s justice.”

“You fail to understand,” said Callatas.

“Oh?” said Caina. “Then explain. You’re the great and wise Grand Master, the brilliant architect of the Apotheosis.” Kalgri giggled at that. “Use some of that vaunted wisdom and explain it to me.”

“I told you Iramis was the height of human civilization,” said Callatas. “Yet even there, even in Iramis, corruption festered. Do you not understand? Nothing is perfectible about civilization! It is a poison we take upon ourselves, a weakness we embrace. Nothing is perfectible about man except our savage nature, our rage, our ability to kill. Should we not embrace that instead? Should we not make ourselves immortal and invincible, so we can live according to our true natures for eternity? That is what the new humanity will do. The new humanity will have no need of laws or farms or titles or cities. The new humanity will be free of all restriction, perfect and immortal, for all time.”

“You’re insane,” said Annarah. She sounded shaken. “You…truly believe that. The Divine have mercy upon us. You believe this madness.”

“It is not madness but wisdom,” said Callatas, “and I alone have the vision to see what must be done and the power to do it.”

“No,” said Caina. “No, you’re just a child throwing a tantrum.”

That surprised him. “What?”

“You thought Iramis was perfect,” said Caina. “You thought Iramis was the height of human civilization. Maybe it was, or maybe it was better than many places. But it still had criminals and evil men inside its walls, just like every other city that ever existed or ever will exist. Yet you had this illusion of Iramis inside your head, this bubble of fake perfection. And when the bubble popped, when you saw the truth, you couldn’t handle it. So you decided that everything was terrible and had to burn.” She let out a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a derisive laugh. “As if you were a child with a broken toy, and so you decided to smash every toy in the house.”

“You have the temerity to compare murder with broken toys?” said Callatas.

“Your reaction was certainly the same,” said Caina.

Callatas shook his head. “Fool. I thought you, at least, would understand. Cassander Nilas learned a great deal about you from the Umbarian Order’s spies, and he told me some of it.”

“And why do you possibly think I would sympathize with what you want to do?” said Caina.

“Because you were created by the corruptions of civilization,” said Callatas.

“And just how did that happen?” said Caina.

“Your mother, Laeria Scorneus Amalas,” said Callatas, “cast aside by the Magisterium. So instead she turned to Maglarion, a disciple of the Moroaica. The Moroaica, a monster created by the civilization of ancient Maat, and she twisted Maglarion into the man you knew.” The cold mask went over Caina’s expression once more, and Callatas felt a surge of petty satisfaction. “All three of them, Laeria, the Moroaica, and Maglarion, creatures wrought by the corruptions of civilization. And Maglarion made you into what you are.”

“The Ghosts,” said Caina, “made me into what I am.”

“Maglarion gave them the raw material,” said Callatas. “He left you barren, unable to conceive a child. The spies of the Umbarians learned that about you, did you know? It seems you are rather notorious within the Empire. If you had been able to bear a child, would you have stayed with the Ghosts? No. You would have borne a brood of children and gone off to live quietly somewhere.” The ice in her expression grew colder. “Instead you have been lashing out in rage and pain, killing this petty sorcerer and that, overthrowing one corrupt lord after another. I threw a tantrum, Caina Amalas? Your entire life has been nothing but one long tantrum after another. If the Apotheosis is a tantrum, then you and I are a great deal alike.”

“We,” said Caina, “are nothing alike.”

“Indeed?” said Callatas.

“You want to wipe out the old humanity and replace it with your pet monsters,” said Caina. “I want to save them.”

“Do you?” said Callatas. “You’ve killed quite a few people.”

“Maybe when I was younger I thought a little like you,” said Caina. “I thought if only we killed all the sorcerers, or all the slavers, then the world would be clean. But it won’t. There will always be evil, and we will always have to fight it. You’re just talking the coward’s way out.”

“What?” said Callatas. “You presume to call me a coward? You…”

“You won’t do the hard work,” said Caina. “You won’t help people. You won’t try to save them. You’ll just kill them all because you’re too much of a coward to try…”

“Do not call me a coward!” roared Callatas, stalking towards her. She didn’t flinch. He had the power to crush her to a bloody pulp with a thought, but the damned woman did not flinch. “Do you know the things I have done? The perils I have dared, and you name me a coward? I went into the Tomb of Kharnaces alone, and I escaped. I stole the Star of Iramis from the Prince’s stronghold, and I spent a century and a half seeking the other two relics! I spent decades researching wraithblood, and…”

“Shut up,” said Caina. “Everything you have done is contemptible, and I will stop you.”

Callatas started to snarl an answer, and then green light blazed through the jungle.

###

Caina spun, cursing herself as a fool.

She should not have let Kalgri and Callatas goad her. Perhaps she would pay the price for that folly now. Perhaps Kharnaces had found them, and decided to kill them as a sensible precaution before finishing the Conjurant Bloodcrystal. Necromantic power, torrents of it, blazed before the vision of the valikarion.

But it was not coming from anywhere nearby.

It was coming from the apex of the hill.

Caina took a few steps forward, staring at the pyramid-shaped hill that gave the island its name. A brilliant flare of emerald light blazed from its crest, and above it she saw a massive vortex of necromantic power, spinning around the hill like a storm. The sheer power of it made her skin crawl and tingle, and the vortex was getting a little bigger with every revolution.

“It’s starting,” said Caina.

“Yes,” said Callatas, his voice hoarse from all the shouting. “Kharnaces has added my blood to the Conjurant Bloodcrystal. It will likely take a few days for the crystal to activate, but when it does, it will destroy the barrier between the mortal world and the netherworld.” He considered for a moment. “The resultant explosion will likely also destroy this island as well.”

“How splendid,” said Morgant. “Shall we go and stop it, or do you wish to exchange further insults? It was entertaining to watch, if useless.”

Caina looked at Callatas. That the man was a monster she already had known, and his attempts at self-justification had only increased her loathing of him. He could have taken a thousand other paths with his life. He could have devoted himself to healing, or to keeping the Magisterium from committing the crimes of the Fourth Empire.

Instead, he had started down the path of the Apotheosis, and he had become something a thousand times worse than that murderous slave merchant.

But right now, Caina needed his help to stop Kharnaces.

“Or I could just kill you all,” said Kalgri. “That would be entertaining, too.”

“I suggest we stay quiet,” said Caina. “Further discussion is useless.”

“Yes,” said Callatas, his eyes a cold glitter in the green-lit gloom.

They pushed onward, dodging the nagataaru patrols and drawing closer to the Tomb of Kharnaces.

Chapter 18: Fire With Fire

Kylon and the others had just returned to the waiting lines when the drums boomed out again.

He turned as Tanzir and Nasser and the other chief commanders began conferring about what to do. A shout rose from the lines of the Grand Wazir’s Immortals, and the horsemen upon the wings beat their spears against their shields. One more cheer rang out, followed by a rumbling roll of the drums.

Then the Grand Wazir’s army started to advance.

It did not move quickly. The Immortals and the infantry advanced with a slow, steady walk, keeping their formations intact, and the horsemen eased their mounts forward. The reason for the slow approach became apparent a moment later when the Hellfire catapults started to groan into motion, pulled by teams of infantry. The Grand Wazir’s army would advance under the cover of the Hellfire engines, and if Tanzir charged, his men would be vulnerable to bombardment. If Tanzir’s army stood fast, sooner or later the Hellfire engines would draw within range, and Erghulan’s Alchemists would rain down fire upon the rebel army.

But if Tanzir’s men closed, the Alchemists could not use Hellfire for fear of hitting their own men. If the armies’ neat formations collapsed into the chaos of general melee, the Alchemists could not use their Hellfire. For that matter, the Hellfire catapults could not defend themselves, and Kylon doubted that more than a handful of the Alchemists possessed the kind of skills that made them dangerous in hand-to-hand combat. If Tanzir could get men behind the enemy lines, they could disable the catapults. Kylon turned his attention from the advancing army to the discussion among the commanders.

“Perhaps it would be best to charge at once,” said Tanzir.

“The men would be exposed to the Hellfire for too long,” said Strabane. “You’ve seen what that devil’s brew can do. Even the bravest man might panic when asked to face Hellfire.”

“Then maybe we should withdraw to more advantageous ground,” said Kazravid, his Anshani robes stirring in the breeze. “Choose another location to fight.”

Tanzir shook his head. “If we withdraw now, we are finished. For all that Erghulan’s standing has been weakened, he is still the Grand Wazir. If we buckle, many emirs of dubious loyalty will flock back to Erghulan’s banner.” He took a deep breath, his expression going grim. “It seems we have no choice but to charge.”

“There may be,” said Nasser, “another way.”

They all looked at him. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Kylon had to suppress a smile. He had seen that look on Nasser’s face before. Nasser Glasshand, master thief, was about to suggest something clever.

No wonder he and Caina had always gotten along so well.

“I am open to counsel,” said Tanzir.

“Hellfire is a sword with two edges,” said Nasser. “Once it is unleashed, it cannot be controlled. We must therefore unleash the Hellfire at a time most advantageous to us and disadvantageous to the Grand Wazir.”

Shopur snorted, scowling beneath his steel helm. “Obviously. Just how are we to do that?”

“We send a party to sneak around the enemy’s lines,” said Nasser, “and set fire to the carts carrying the Hellfire amphorae. We would need only smash one or two amphorae in each cart. Once Hellfire is exposed to the air, it ignites, and the resultant explosion would set the rest of the substance ablaze.”

“Erghulan will be expecting that,” said Lord Martin. “It is the obvious approach to take.”

“Indeed,” said Nasser, pointing with his right hand. “Note how he has dispatched men to defend the ravine. That ravine would provide easy cover for anyone attempting to sneak behind his army.”

“Surely you do not want to send men through the ravine,” said Martin. “Erghulan’s archers would make short work of them.”

“They would,” said Kylon, some understanding dawning in his mind. “Which means we want them to think we have sent men into the ravines.”

“Precisely,” said Nasser. “Lord Tanzir, Prince Sulaman, I propose that we send a small party of men to ignite some of our own supply of Hellfire in the ravine. The ravine contains much dried grass and numerous small bushes, and all of those will burn quickly and produce a considerable quantity of smoke. The Grand Wazir will assume that we are attempting to reach the Hellfire engines and react accordingly. Meanwhile, a small party of Istarish nomads should be able to circle behind the army and attack the Hellfire catapults.”

“Erghulan might see through the ruse,” said Strabane.

“True,” said Nasser. “He may not, however. I am confident enough that I am willing to ride with the nomads.”

“As am I,” said Kylon. This, he thought, was where he could make best use of his skills. Neither Rhataban nor the Huntress would need to bother killing Tanzir and Sulaman if Erghulan’s army won the battle.

“I shall send Mazyan with you,” said Sulaman. “The skills of my Oath Shadow will be needed.”

“My place is with you, my prince,” said Mazyan at once, his perpetual scowl deepening.

“Your oath is to protect me, my loyal friend,” said Sulaman without rebuke, “and I fear you can accomplish that best by destroying the Hellfire engines. Nasser Glasshand’s plan is our best chance.”

It was not a command, but Tanzir followed it anyway.

“So be it,” said Tanzir. “Captain Shopur, Captain Dio. Your men have the most experience with this kind of raid. Pick suitable men, and the quartermaster will provide some of our Hellfire. Nasser, Kylon, Mazyan. Find Tibraim and tell him to pick his best raiders. Go at once. We do not have much time.”

They hurried to their tasks.

###

A short time later Kylon swung into the saddle of one of the tough little horses favored by the nomads. The beast was truculent and annoyed, yet it proved obedient enough once Kylon got his feet into the stirrups and the reins in his hands. Around him a hundred of Tibraim’s nomads mounted, checking their bowstrings and adjusting the quivers of arrows that hung from their saddles. One of the nomads offered Kylon a short bow and a quiver of arrows, and he declined politely. He knew how to use a bow, but he was not a good shot, and he had never used the weapon from horseback. He might well wind up shooting one of their own men.

Nearby Nasser, Laertes, and Mazyan climbed into their saddles. Nasser and Laertes handled their horses well enough. Mazyan looked annoyed, but his horse obeyed him, perhaps out of fear. Tibraim himself led the raid, and the wiry little nomad sat atop his horse like a king on his throne, watching the advancing army.

“Now?” he said. His emotional sense was tense with anticipation and a desire for glory. Many men feared the coming battle. Tibraim of the Trabazon steppes looked forward to it.

“Soon, headman,” said Nasser. “We must strike when the moment is right and not before. Else our arrow shall go amiss, and the gazelle shall escape us.”

Tibraim snorted. “Bah! Do not quote the proverbs of the steppes to me, Nasser Glasshand.”

Yet he waited. The band of nomads sat at the right flank of Tanzir’s army, hidden behind some of the heavy mercenary horsemen. Once the fire in the ravine began, they would charge, circling around Erghulan’s army as fast as they could manage.

“I see smoke!” snarled one of the nomads, pointing with his bow. Kylon looked west towards the ravine, and did indeed see wisps of black smoke rising from its edge. Commotion started at the edge of the ravine as Erghulan’s men went to see what was happening…

And with a brilliant crimson flash, the Hellfire exploded.

The mercenaries could not have carried that many amphorae of Hellfire with them, yet it made for an impressive explosion nonetheless. A pillar of crimson fire roared up, and flames spread throughout the ravine as the fire leaped to the grass and the bushes. Kylon hoped the mercenaries had gotten away before the Hellfire had ignited.

A ripple of shock went through the enemy soldiers nearest the ravine, and Kylon felt the sudden uncertainty in their emotional sense.

“I believe, headman,” said Nasser, “that the moment is right.”

A boom of drums and a blast of trumpets rose from Tanzir’s lines. Tanzir did not plan to charge, not until the Hellfire catapults had been neutralized, but the noise nonetheless held the attention of the Grand Wazir’s army. The rest of the Istarish nomads began riding back and forth before the lines of the enemy, loosing arrows at random into the tight-packed soldiers. Kylon wondered how long the Immortals would stand under that kind of harassment before they broke and charged.

“Now!” said Tibraim, and he tapped his heels to the sides of his horse. The ugly beast whinnied and surged forward, and Kylon followed suit. Around him the others charged, and the horses raced around the edge of the enemy army as smoke rose from the ravine and Tanzir’s drums boomed out. The Istarish nomads galloped past the horsemen on Erghulan’s left wing, loosing a storm of arrows as they passed. The armored horsemen reacted as Kylon expected, raising their shields to protect themselves from the spray of arrows. Between their heavy armor and shields, the arrows did little damage, save to annoy a horse or two. Because of the rest of the Istarish skirmishers wheeling back and forth before the Immortals, the heavy horsemen expected Tibraim’s band to break off and ride back towards Tanzir’s lines before beginning another pass.

So they were caught off guard when Tibraim’s band kept riding. They started to react, but by then it was too late, and the nomads were past them, racing behind the Grand Wazir’s army.

“The first catapult!” shouted Nasser, his voice thundering over the stamp of hooves around Kylon. “Go!”

The catapults waited about a hundred yards behind the main bulk of the army. Each catapult was a heavy machine of wood and iron, a framework of thick wooden beams supporting a mechanism of massive gears. A team of a dozen soldiers pulled the catapult, and a half-dozen gray-robed acolytes of the College of Alchemists tended to the engine, supervised by a full Alchemist in flowing white robes.

Next to the catapult stood a cart loaded with fifty amphorae of Hellfire.

“At them!” said Tibraim, and the Istarish nomads loosed their wailing war cries and charged, sending arrows flying at the soldiers. Three acolytes and two soldiers went down in the first volley. The remaining soldiers whirled, drawing their scimitars, and the Alchemist shouted orders to his acolytes, casting a spell as he did so.

Kylon kicked his horse to a gallop and stood up in the saddle, drawing upon the power of air and water. His horse raced towards the catapult, and Kylon leaped from the saddle as the Alchemist gestured, golden fire blazing around his hands. The valikon flashed out, the full power of Kylon’s strength and momentum behind it, and the blade sank halfway into the Alchemist’s chest, piercing his spell-armored robes. The Alchemist went limp, and Kylon ripped the valikon free and turned, seeking to join the fray.

But the fight was already over. Both the acolytes and the surviving soldiers fled towards the lines of the infantry. Mazyan straightened up, three dead soldiers at his feet, and jumped back into his saddle with a single fluid motion.

“Get ready to run!” said Kylon. He dashed towards the cart holding the amphorae of Hellfire, and brought the valikon’s pommel hammering down. After three blows, he cracked the nearest amphora, and the Hellfire started oozing out, thick and red and viscous.

“To the next catapult!” said Nasser. “Quickly!”

Kylon stepped back, looking for his horse, and then realized that it had fled. He drew upon the power of air sorcery and sprinted, following the nomads. A few of them gave him startled looks as Kylon kept pace with their horses, but he didn’t care. Right now the important thing was to get away from the cart before…

There was a flare of red light and a crackling noise as the Hellfire within the broken amphora ignited, following an instant later by the sound of shattering ceramic as the surrounding amphorae cracked, their Hellfire dribbling into the fire…

The explosion came a heartbeat after that.

A deafening thunderclap rang out, and for a moment it was as if a second sun of blood-colored fire had risen from the ground. A hot wind slammed into Kylon, and he stumbled several steps, barely keeping his balance. He risked a glance back and saw that the cart had been annihilated, the massive catapult thrown upon its side by the explosion. In the place of the cart was a yawning crater, a roiling crimson fireball rising from its interior. Pebbles and shards of broken amphora rained Kylon, and he kept running.

One catapult down, five to go.

He kept pace with the horsemen as they charged the second catapult, whooping and loosing arrows as they did. Like the first catapult, this one had a guard of acolytes, soldiers, and a single Alchemist, who was already sprinting for the safety of the Immortals. Unlike the first catapult, the second had a guard of a half-dozen Immortals.

Kylon changed direction, drawing upon as much of the sorcery of water as he could hold. White mist swirled around his left fist, hardening into a gauntlet of blue-green ice. One of the Immortals turned towards him, and Kylon attacked, drawing back his fist and using the sorcery of water for enhanced strength. His fist slammed into the Immortal’s helmet, crushing the skull-mask, and Kylon heard the snap of bone.

The Immortal fell limp to the ground.

Kylon whirled as another Immortal charged him, and he jumped back, yanking a dagger from his belt. White mist swirled around the weapon’s edge, and Kylon struck, landing a blow on the Immortal’s sword arm. The dagger shattered in the extreme cold, but the mist hardened into a coat of thick frost. The Immortal’s sword arm stuck for a moment, and Kylon drove the valikon into a gap in the black armor. Blood glistened on the silver blade, and the Immortal fell. Mazyan sprang from his saddle and landed, and the sword of smokeless flame flashed into existence as he carved into the Immortals.

Kylon spun, seeking new foes, and saw Laertes rise in his saddle, drawing a javelin from over his shoulder. In one smooth motion, the former centurion flung the weapon, and it soared through the air and smashed into the cart holding the amphorae of Hellfire. The javelin’s heavy iron head had been designed to punch through enemy shields, but it proved just as effective against the ceramic of the amphorae. The javelin sank into the side of an amphora, a rivulet of crimson Hellfire running down the side.

“Withdraw!” said Nasser. “Withdraw! To the next catapult! The Hellfire will explode! Go!”

Another Immortal came at Kylon. He blocked the first swing of the scimitar, twisted around the second, and then sprinted away, following the Istarish nomads as they galloped past the catapult. The Immortal tried to pursue, but Kylon had the sorcery of air and was not burdened with black plate armor. He joined the nomads as they galloped away, heading for the third catapult.

This time the explosion caught Kylon off-guard. The jolt beneath his boots knocked him from his feet, and he tucked his shoulder and rolled, the harsh light of the Hellfire fireball illuminating the ground. He saw two Immortals tumbling through their air like toys, their limbs flailing, only for them to go motionless when they struck the ground with crushing force. Kylon staggered back to his feet, turned, and resumed his run after the horsemen.

His thoughts reeled, his head ringing from the explosion. The Hellfire was too volatile to use properly in a battle. Little wonder the Istarish mostly used it during sieges. Little wonder the Istarish had burned the Kyracian fleet that had come to take Istarinmul in ancient times. Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku had been a fool to bring the Hellfire to the field…

For that matter, why hadn’t Erghulan responded? He ought to have sent men to stop the Istarish raiders, or at least guard the catapults.

Trumpets rang out, and the army of the Grand Wazir started moving. But not towards the catapults.

Towards the rebel army, instead.

It seemed that Erghulan had decided to abandon the catapults and smash the rebels with one heavy blow.

Chapter 19: Safeguards

The jungles ended at the base of Pyramid Isle’s rocky, bone-colored hill.

It was like a line drawn upon a map. On one side was the jungle, lush and green and vibrant. Granted, Caina knew that the undead baboons had killed the island’s animals long ago. Nonetheless, the jungle was alive, filled with vivid greens and reds and yellows.

On the other side of the line was death.

The land at the base of the hill was simply dead. There were no trees, no bushes, no grasses, no flowers, no weeds, no lichen, nothing. Just dead earth that looked as if it would never support a plant again. Given the amount of necromantic power that had flowed through the Tomb of Kharnaces over the millennia, it was likely that nothing would ever grow here again.

Despite the heat of the jungle Caina felt very cold.

A dark archway yawned on the side of the hill, the frame carved with elaborate Maatish hieroglyphs. Two statues stood on either side of the archway, rising to nearly twenty feet tall. They were muscular men clad in Maatish kilts, with giant scarabs in lieu of heads.

Beyond the archway waited the darkness within the Tomb of Kharnaces.

“Ugly things,” muttered Kalgri, staring up at the statues.

“Anubankh,” said Caina. “The Maatish god of necromancy.”

“A god?” said Kalgri, amused. “What fool prays to a god with a giant insect for a head?”

“Perhaps you can ask Kharnaces when we seem him again,” said Morgant.

Kalgri said nothing, still watching the archway. None of the baboons or Immortals were visible at the base of the hill. Perhaps Kharnaces had not believed Caina and the others would make it this far.

“The Conjurant Bloodcrystal,” said Caina. “Kharnaces must have moved it to the top of the hill.”

“Most probably,” said Callatas, gazing skyward. The light at the top of the hill pulsed and flared, throwing an unearthly green glow over the island. “There are passages within the Tomb that lead to the hill’s crown. We shall have to use them.”

“And blunder into any wards or traps Kharnaces might have left behind,” said Morgant.

“We shall deal with them as we find them,” said Callatas.

“Maybe we can climb the sides of the hill,” said Caina, looking at the rocky slopes. Though that seemed unlikely. In places the hillside was steep enough to pass for a cliff. She thought she could work her way to the top of the hill, but she did not know if Annarah and Callatas could manage it.

By the time they did, Kharnaces might have activated the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.

It was time to make a very dangerous gamble.

Caina concentrated upon her pyrikon, asking it to return to its bracelet form, and it shrank and wrapped around her left wrist.

“All right,” said Caina. “This is what we’ll do. Callatas. If I remember right, there are six passages leading off from the domed entrance hall.”

“There are,” said Callatas. His face showed no emotion, but she saw the hatred and anger in his eyes. If they defeated Kharnaces, he would do his very best to kill her. Though given the way he had been staring at her, maybe he would attempt to visit some other indignities upon her first.

“You remember which passage goes where?” said Caina.

He offered a thin smile. “I am not so forgetful.”

“When we get there, we’ll split up,” said Caina. “Annarah and Morgant and I will go to the library and then the throne room to find the canopic jars.”

“And where shall Kalgri and I go?” said Callatas in a dry voice.

“You,” said Caina, “will go to the apex of the hill to fight Kharnaces.”

Callatas said nothing for a moment.

“I cannot overcome him in a direct duel,” said Callatas. “I am stronger than I was a century and a half ago…but he has practiced the arcane sciences for two and a half thousand years. I can present a challenge to him, but he will defeat me in the end.” His eyes narrowed. “I trust you have a reason other than arranging my death?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “Kharnaces knows the canopic jars are his weakness. Once he’s realized that we have reached his Tomb, he knows we will come for the canopic jars, and he will crush us before we can destroy them. That means we have to distract him, and of the five of us, you are the only one who is a credible threat to him.”

“Then I am to be a distraction,” said Callatas with a scowl. “I shall draw the attention of Kharnaces while you sneak into his Tomb and destroy his canopic jars.”

“Yes,” said Caina, watching him. If he decided not to cooperate…

“Folly,” said Callatas. “Utter folly. Kharnaces will kill us all.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” said Caina.

Callatas glared at her, and for a moment something like a bottomless black shadow darkened his eyes. Caina had seen a shadow like that before, filling the sky of the netherworld when Kotuluk Iblis had come to kill her. It occurred to her that if Kotuluk Iblis’s shadow filled Callatas, then the sovereign of the nagataaru was watching her right now.

It was not a pleasant thought.

“No,” said Callatas at last.

“It is the best plan we are likely to have, father,” said Kalgri, much to Caina’s surprise. Callatas looked at her. “I detest going into battle against a superior foe, but it seems we have little choice if the Apotheosis is to happen.”

“Very well,” said Callatas. “I agree to your terms.” He started to turn back. “We…”

Caina moved before he could react.

She seized his wrist and twisted it, and Callatas’s eyes went wide. At once he started to draw power for a spell, but not before Caina grabbed the Seal of Iramis and ripped it from his finger.

She took several steps back as golden fire crackled around his fingers.

“Give that back,” hissed Callatas. “Now!”

“No,” said Caina. “If I do, once Kharnaces is defeated, you’ll leave Pyramid Isle at once.”

“Obviously,” said Callatas. “Give it back, or you will die here and now.”

“You can come and get it,” said Caina, “once we have destroyed Kharnaces.”

Kalgri giggled in amusement, which only made Callatas angrier.

“Or I can kill all three of you now,” said Callatas, “and take the Seal from your corpse.”

Caina smiled at him, trying to conceal her fear. “And if you do, I hope you can come up with a way to defeat Kharnaces on your own. Do you think Kalgri would distract him while you unravel the spells around his canopic jars? She does seem like the self-sacrificing sort, doesn’t she? Or maybe you can defeat Kharnaces in a spell duel. Stranger things have happened.”

Callatas glared at her, the cords standing out in his neck, the veins throbbing in his temples. She might have pushed him too far. Her plan was the most logical way they had to defeat Kharnaces, and if she was honest, it was the only thing that might possibly work. Yet she suspected that Callatas was not in complete control of himself, especially after their shouting match in the jungle. If she had pushed him too far, and he decided to simply kill them all…

She adjusted her grip on the ghostsilver dagger, the Seal’s power burning against her left hand.

Callatas let out a long breath, his expression turning to calm, though his eyes burned like coals. Kalgri moved to his side, a red-armored shadow in her stolen shadow-cloak.

“Very well,” said Callatas at last. “I will keep my word. But know this. Once Kharnaces is defeated and the Conjurant Bloodcrystal destroyed, I will find you, I will reclaim the Seal, and then I will kill you in great pain.”

“For what?” said Annarah, shaking her head. “For the crime of telling you the truth?”

Callatas hissed, the calm starting to crack again. “For daring to oppose the Apotheosis and the coming of the new humanity. For being too foolish to see the truth of my vision.”

“Then the man who was my teacher,” said Annarah, “is truly dead, and a monster has indeed taken his place.”

Callatas said nothing, but his knuckles shone white as his hand tightened against the Staff of Iramis.

“Not to worry,” said Morgant. “It’s entirely possible Kharnaces will kill us all first.”

Kalgri’s sneering, giggling laughter rang out. Gods, but Caina was sick of that sound.

“If we are done posturing,” said Caina, “we have work to do.” She slipped the Seal into a pouch at her belt. She didn’t want to wear the thing. It radiated so much arcane power that it hurt to have it against her skin, and if she did wear it, she suspected the nagataaru would be able to sense her presence, even with her valikarion abilities.

Best not to find out. That, and it was simply too big for any of her fingers.

Callatas inclined his head and pointed the Staff at the entrance to the Tomb, the Star gleaming with pale blue light on its chain against his chest. “Lead the way, then, Balarigar.”

Caina took a deep breath and turned, recalling her pyrikon to its staff form. The end shone with pale white light, and Caina led the way into the Tomb of Kharnaces.

The great entry hall had not changed since her last visit. The polished granite floor gleamed beneath her boots, reflecting the glow from the pyrikon. Massive square pillars rose from the floor to the arched ceiling overhead, carved in the likeness of the Maatish gods, muscled men in kilts with the heads of animals – scarabs and baboons and lions and falcons and jackals. Hieroglyphs covered the ceiling. They had been filled with silver, and they reflected the light from the staff. The overall effect made for a sort of cold, frozen beauty.

The air within the Tomb was drier and colder than the jungle. Caina’s clothes felt damp with the sweat of her exertions over the last day. It was just as well that the dusty, dry smell of the Tomb swallowed everything else. She suspected her own odor was not pleasant.

“A pity we can’t take the time to carve the silver out of those hieroglyphs,” said Morgant, gazing at the ceiling. “There is enough silver up there to keep a man in food and drink for a very long time.”

“Bad idea,” said Caina. The light from her pyrikon illuminated the far end of the entry hall, revealing a massive relief of a falcon holding a solar orb in its talons. The relief had been gilded, and seemed to shimmer like fire. Beyond was another hall that stretched into the darkness. Unlike the first hall, there were no pillars. Rather, there were niches of red granite in the walls, dozens of them, the walls themselves covered with hieroglyphs. “There are spells on those hieroglyphs. I suspect prying them out of the ceiling would be dangerous.”

She could also see warding spells on each of those niches, layered over powerful necromantic spells. Those could be a problem. Caina remembered those spells from her last visit to the Tomb.

“Perhaps you could take the silver as recompense for your precious mural,” said Callatas.

Morgant grinned. The pale light from the pyrikon made the expression look skull-like on his gaunt face. “Why don’t you levitate up there and get it?”

“Stop,” said Caina. “We have a problem.” She pointed the pyrikon staff into the next gallery. “There are nagataaru waiting in those niches, dozens of them. Kharnaces bound them into undead warriors.”

“What of it?” said Callatas. “We are invisible to the sight of the nagataaru. Let them come. They will not be able to find us. I remember those warriors. They remain dormant until the presence of an intruder activates them.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Caina. “This is the end of the world. At least, Kharnaces wants it to be the end of the world. So why does he need dormant guardians? Why not wake them up and send them out to hunt for us?”

For a moment no one said anything.

“Oh,” said Morgant. “Hell.”

“What do you mean?” said Callatas. “Explain…”

With the sound of rasping stone upon stone, every single niche in the next hall opened, and scores of the undead warriors stepped forth.

Like the baboons in the jungle outside, they had been mummified long ago, their leathery flesh stretched tight over their crumbling skeletons. The flesh had drawn back from their teeth in macabre grins, and the purple fire of the nagataaru danced in the black pits of their eyes. Unlike the baboons, the warriors wore armor and carried weapons – bronze helmets, round bronze shields, and skirts of bronze scales that fell to their knees. In their right hands they carried the curved, hooked sword that the ancient Maatish had called a khopesh, sharp and deadly. To the sight of the valikarion, the warriors shone with necromantic spells and the augmentation spells placed upon the weapons and armor.

The warriors strode into the hall, and then stopped and turned.

Every single one of them was staring at Caina and the others.

“They can see us,” said Caina, trying to sort through the haze of spells surrounding the undead warriors.

“They cannot see us,” said Callatas with disdain. “They are nagataaru housed in shells of undead flesh.”

Some of the undead warriors looked in Callatas’s direction.

“Really?” said Morgant. “No doubt they were swayed but your charismatic oratory, but…”

“The spells,” said Caina. “The spells on their helmets. I think they let the nagataaru perceive the material world. Kharnaces must have added them since the last time, and…”

The undead warriors strode forward, raising their khopesh blades.

“Defend yourselves!” said Caina.

###

Morgant flicked his wrist, ripping his black dagger through the bronze helmet of an undead warrior, twisting the blade to the left. The skull and the helmet popped right off and rolled across the floor. Shadow and purple fire erupted from the undead warrior’s neck, forming a brief image of a hooded wraith as the nagataaru was ejected from its host. The nagataaru dissipated, drawn back into the netherworld, and the undead warrior collapsed to the floor in a pile of bones.

One down, a few hundred to go.

Morgant wheeled, flicking his dagger across the forearm of another undead warrior. The blade did little damage, but that didn’t matter, because the dagger released all the heat it had stored up from sawing through bronze armor. The undead erupted into fire, staggered forward a step, and collapsed into a heap of burning coals and tangled armor.

Another pulse of white light swept through the hall as Annarah slammed her pyrikon staff against the floor with a shout. The white light of the Words of Lore did not banish the nagataaru, but it did stun them for a few seconds. That saved Caina’s life as she dodged away from a pair of undead warriors, jamming her ghostsilver dagger into its neck. There was a sizzling noise as the ghostsilver disrupted the necromantic spells, and the warrior staggered and came apart in a heap of bones and armor.

One of the undead lunged towards Annarah, and Morgant attacked, hammering two quick blows upon its back with his crimson scimitar. The enspelled blade bit into the armor, but did little damage. It did distract the warrior, forcing it to turn and face the new threat. Morgant parried with his dagger, and the black blade sheared through the khopesh just above the hilt. The undead warrior stumbled from the sudden loss of weight, and Morgant whipped his dagger up and beheaded the warrior with a quick blow. His opponent collapsed, and Morgant spun, releasing the heat from his dagger into a second warrior. The undead thing collapsed, blazing like a torch, the fire throwing wild shadows across the wall.

And wild shadows across the undead warriors streaming into the hall. The last time they had come to the Tomb of Kharnaces, they had faced only six of the things before they had figured out how to bypass them. Now hundreds of the creatures were entering the hall, likely the undead that Caina had seen guarding the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.

No more need to guard the Conjurant Bloodcrystal when Kharnaces was about to use the damned thing.

Especially since the undead might suffice to kill them all.

Callatas and the Huntress had not entered the fray. Both the Grand Master and the Huntress had fallen back to the arch leading to the previous chamber. If any of the undead warriors ventured too close, the Huntress cut it down with a sword of shadow and flashing purple fire, or Callatas shattered it with a blast of invisible force. Yet neither of them lifted a finger to aid Caina and Annarah and Morgant.

The Grand Master’s new plan was obvious. He and the Huntress would simply wait until the undead warriors cut down Caina and Annarah and Morgant. Then Callatas would blast his way through them, take the Seal from Caina’s corpse, and continue on his way. Perhaps he would go after Kharnaces’s canopic jars himself. Or maybe he would confront Kharnaces in person while the Huntress went to destroy the jars.

Maybe Caina should not have stolen the Seal back from Callatas, though it was good insurance to keep the Grand Master from betraying them. On the other hand, perhaps the Grand Master had decided to let the undead kill them and take his chances with Kharnaces alone. Maybe Morgant could surprise and cut down the Grand Master, but he doubted his weapons could penetrate the wards surrounding Callatas.

Then Caina stepped back, thrusting a hand into the pouch at her belt and raising something over her head.

The Seal. Was she giving it back to Callatas in exchange for their lives? That was a stupid decision. Callatas need only wait until the undead killed them, and then he could collect the Seal at his leisure.

“Hear me!” shouted Caina at the top of her lungs. Gods, but that woman could be loud when she wanted. “By the power of the Seal, I bind you! By the power of the Seal, I compel you!” The stone in the silvery ring blazed with blue light, covering Caina in its ghostly glow. “I command you to halt! You will halt!”

And to Morgant’s astonishment, the undead warriors obeyed.

They froze in place, weapons still grasped in their hands. Caina held out the Seal like a magistrate brandishing a writ, the blue light falling over the hall. The purple fire in the eyes of the undead things burned brighter in response. They were angry, and did not like yielding to the power of the Seal.

But it seemed they had no choice.

“You will clear my path,” said Caina, “and you will return to your burial chambers, and you shall not hinder me further. Go! By the power of the Seal, I command you! Go!”

Slowly, the undead warriors shuffled back, striding into the niches lining the walls or vanishing deeper into the Tomb.

“Gods,” muttered Caina, her arm shaking. “Holding that thing stings.”

“Do not put it down,” said Annarah, leaning a little on her pyrikon staff to keep standing. “I suspect the nagataaru will return with a vengeance if you release the Seal.”

“The loremaster is correct,” said Callatas, the Staff of Iramis tapping against the floor as he strode forward, the Huntress following him. “If you release the Seal, the binding will end, and the nagataaru will follow Kharnaces’s original commands.”

“Thanks so very much,” said Caina, “for your help.”

Callatas offered a thin smile. “I offered you as much help as you would have given me should our positions have been reversed.”

“Were you in my position,” said Caina, “your spells would have let you offer far more effective help.”

Callatas shrugged. “Surely the great and noble Balarigar would not need the help of the wicked Grand Master to vanquish her foes.”

Caina’s eyes narrowed, glittering in the light from the Seal’s glowing stone.

“Or perhaps,” said Callatas, “if you had not taken the Seal, I would have been able to help sooner, alas. A pity when our actions have unintended consequences.”

Caina and Callatas stared at each other. Caina had always been Callatas’s enemy, and the Grand Master had expended enormous resources trying to hunt her down and kill her. Yet they had never really met in the flesh, and now that they had, Morgant suspected their enmity had expanded into a profound loathing of each other. If they came to blows…

“He’s right, you know,” said Morgant. “About the unintended consequences.”

“What?” said Caina.

“If he had just paid me for the mural, he could have avoided all sorts of trouble,” said Morgant.

Callatas let out an irritated growl, the shadow in his eyes darkening.

“Perhaps you should have heeded your own lesson,” said Caina. “Let’s go.”

###

The domed chamber was very much like the Hall of Fire in the Inferno, albeit on a smaller scale. The dome of the ceiling rose a hundred feet overhead, studded with crystals that made it look as if stars glittered within the stone. Thousands of rows of hieroglyphics marked the walls in endless rows of strange symbols. When Caina had first come here, she had wondered if the hieroglyphs were hymns of praise to the Maatish gods or maledictions upon Kharnaces for the heresy of worshipping the nagataaru. Thanks to the knowledge that Kharnaces had forced into her skull, Caina could now read the inscriptions. Some of them were indeed curses upon Kharnaces for his heresy, and others were warnings urging intruders to turn back lest they share the punishment of Kharnaces for his vile crimes.

It was a pity that Callatas could not read the warnings. Much evil could have been averted. Of course, even if he had been able to read the warnings, the damned fool would have pressed on, heedless of the cost, heedless of the slaughter and the misery and the ruined lives left in the wake of his mad quest to reform humanity…

Callatas had indeed been wrong. Caina was not like him. She had started on the path of the Ghosts to keep others from enduring the kind of pain her mother and Maglarion had inflicted upon her. Caina had no illusions about the nature of humanity, but she still wanted to save people, to free them, to let them live their lives free of the kind of sorcerous terror that men like Callatas and Cassander wielded.

Callatas, by contrast, had such contempt for humanity that he wanted to destroy them and replace them with the twisted creatures of his own vision.

Caina shook her head. Callatas would not turn back from his path for any reason…and neither would Caina turn back from her determination to stop him.

One way or another, only one of them was going to leave Pyramid Isle.

“This,” said Callatas, “is where we part ways.”

Six separate archways opened off the domed chamber, leading into different parts of the Tomb. The last time, only one of the archways had been open, luring Caina into the trap Kharnaces had laid for her. Now all six archways stood open, the massive stone slabs of their doors pushed to the side.

“Such a lovely stroll we had,” said Kalgri. “We really must do it again sometime.”

“Let’s not,” said Caina.

“Do not worry,” said Callatas. “We are going to meet again very soon.”

She met his dark eyes, watching the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis pulse and flare within in time to his mood. “I don’t doubt it.”

“I suggest,” said Callatas, “that you find and destroy those canopic jars as soon as possible. If you think to delay so Kharnaces will kill me for you, he will likely overcome me and then come to kill you.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Caina. “And I suggest that you turn your full attention to fighting Kharnaces. If you think to let him kill me first and then destroy the canopic jars yourself, likely he will destroy you, and then kill me.” She smiled at him. “But if you time it right, you might get killed and I might destroy the canopic jars before Kharnaces can find me. An ideal outcome, don’t you think?”

“We shall see,” said Callatas. “Until we meet again, Caina Amalas. Which, I promise you, will be sooner than you like.”

Without another word he turned and strode towards the passage leading to the apex of the hill. Kalgri lingered a moment, grinning in anticipation at Caina, and Caina forced herself to meet the Huntress’s blue eyes despite her fear.

“If you wait here too long,” said Caina, “you’ll miss all the killing.”

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear,” said Kalgri with a reedy giggle. “There will be enough killing for even me before we’re finished here.”

She turned and followed Callatas up the passage, vanishing as her shadow-cloak merged with the darkness filling the Tomb.

“Gods,” muttered Caina at last.

“Was he always like that?” said Morgant.

“No,” said Annarah. The strain was evident on her face. Caina felt a stab of sympathy for her. Callatas had been a mentor to Annarah just as Halfdan had been a mentor to Caina, and the pain of that betrayal had to be profound. “I think…I think he believed in a lie he told himself. I think he believed that Iramis was perfect and without flaw, and when he learned otherwise…he chose to believe a different lie.”

“What?” said Morgant. “No, no. I mean those speeches! Those endless, pompous speeches.”

Caina snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

“I do like to talk. But my speech is witty and urbane,” said Morgant. “I don’t expound endlessly upon philosophy.”

To Caina’s surprise, Annarah laughed. “Actually, he was always like that. The lords and loremasters called him Callatas the Wise, but the initiates called him Callatas the Longwinded. Behind his back, of course.” Her laughter faded. “And now the time for speeches is over. We must hurry. If we do not destroy those canopic jars, Kharnaces shall prevail, and nothing we or Callatas do will matter.”

“Aye,” said Caina, drawing a deep breath. “This way.”

She led the way to the passage that led to Kharnaces’s library, and then to his throne room. If she was right, Kharnaces had concealed his canopic jars there, perhaps they could destroy them before the Great Necromancer reacted.

If Caina was wrong, she and Annarah and Morgant would die…followed shortly thereafter by everyone else in the world as the nagataaru swarmed through the shattered barrier of the netherworld.

Chapter 20: Immortals

For a frozen instant Kylon stared at the charging army, trying to guess the intentions of Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku. Kylon and the nomads had only disabled two of the Hellfire catapults, but four of the engines were still intact. If Erghulan had sent his horsemen to pursue the nomads, he could have driven the raiders off, and then stationed troops of Immortals around the catapults.

Then Kylon understood. Their distraction had worked too well. Erghulan had feared that the enemy had gotten behind his lines, that he would be trapped between two hostile forces. So rather than wait, he had charged Tanzir’s army, hoping to break through in a single massive attack.

It was a rash tactic…but it probably would work. Erghulan’s heavy horsemen were the match of Tanzir’s mercenaries. And the Kaltari and the southern militias were doughty fighters, but the Immortals were ferocious and brutal warriors. Could the Kaltari stand against the Immortals?

Kylon didn’t know…but if he had to bet, he would have wagered on the Immortals.

It seemed that Erghulan had made that same gamble.

Tibraim halted, the nomads forming up around him once more. Kylon kept running and rejoined the others, the valikon still in his fist.

“Nasser!” he called.

Nasser waited on his horse, his scimitar red with blood in his right hand. Laertes reined up next to him, adjusting the straps on his heavy shield. Tibraim looked back and forth at the charging Immortals, scowling and muttering to himself in Istarish.

“It seems,” said Nasser, calm as ever, “that we have inadvertently started the battle.”

“Let us attack!” said Tibraim. “We can take the foe from behind and ride through them like the wind of the steppes.”

Nasser was already shaking his head before Tibraim stopped speaking. “We cannot. We are simply too few. If we try to charge the foe, we shall be overwhelmed in short order. We could harass them with arrows, but that will have little effect on anything at this point.”

“Perhaps we ought to rejoin the host,” said Laertes.

“By the time we get there,” said Kylon, watching the black steel of the Immortals’ armor glinting in the sun, “the battle will be joined. Or it will be too late. The Kaltari are fierce fighters, but they might not be able to stand against that many Immortals.”

“No,” said Nasser. “Without aid, I fear they will not be able to hold.”

“What aid can we give them?” said Laertes. “A hundred horsemen and a stormdancer could not turn the tide against five thousand Immortals.”

“No,” said Nasser again. “We should withdraw and rejoin Lord Tanzir. If he is forced to fall back, he will need assistance to keep the…”

“Wait,” said Kylon, an idea coming to him. He looked over the battlefield, gauging the distances. It would mean difficult timing, but if they acted at once…

“Lord Kylon?” said Nasser.

“Erghulan is giving up on using the Hellfire catapults,” said Kylon. “By the time he reaches Tanzir’s army, they’ll be out of range. But Erghulan’s own men…”

“Are still within range of the catapults,” said Nasser. “You suggest we seize control of one of the catapults and bring it to bear against the Immortals?”

“Yes,” said Kylon. “Right now.” The Immortals were still in their close-packed formation, and if a dozen Hellfire amphorae landed among them, the results would be devastating.

“A daring plan,” said Tibraim. “I like it! Let us turn the enemy’s own weapons upon him!”

“Agreed,” said Nasser. He pointed at the next catapult, and even from a distance Kylon saw a number of Immortals still guarding it. “Ride!”

The nomads put heels to their mounts and charged, and Kylon drew on the sorcery of air for speed, running alongside them. The score of Immortals guarding the catapult saw the horsemen coming and scrambled into a line, raising their scimitars and chain whips. Behind the Immortals Kylon saw a flash of white from the robe of an Alchemist, followed by a flare of golden fire.

“Mazyan!” shouted Kylon, and the Oath Shadow looked at him. “Keep the Immortals off me! I’ll handle the Alchemist!”

Mazyan gave a curt nod and turned his horse towards the Immortals.

Then the golden fire flared, and a burst of brilliant flame erupted over the heads of the Immortals. It touched two of the charging nomads, and both the riders and their horses transmuted into statues of pale blue crystal. Three more riders slammed into the suddenly motionless statues, tumbling from their saddles.

Kylon gritted his teeth, put on another burst of speed, and jumped.

The sorcery of wind lifted him in a soaring leap, and he shot over the Immortals’ heads and landed between the Alchemist and the catapult. The Alchemist wore the white battle armor Kylon had seen before, a full helm masking his features. Golden fire played around his left hand, and in his right he held a long metallic fork, a bright blue-white spark playing between the tines.

Kylon had seen sorcerous weapons like that before. The Immortals started to turn towards Kylon, but by then Mazyan had leapt among them, followed a moment later by the nomads.

The Alchemist thrust his fork towards Kylon, and a snarling blast of blue-white lightning leapt from the sorcerous weapon. Kylon cast his own spell, pushing out his left palm. The sorcery of the stormdancers and the stormsingers of New Kyre was the power of storm and wave and sea. Kylon knew the basics of manipulating lightning, but never had been very good at it, and certainly had never tried to use it in battle.

But it was easier to disrupt a spell than to work one.

Kylon cast a simple ward around himself, and the lightning struck his palm and rebounded, grounding itself in the steel rods of the catapult with a thunderclap. For an awful moment he was sure that it had struck the dozen amphorae of Hellfire loaded in the engine’s throwing arm, but none of the sparks reached the amphorae.

He raced forward, lifting the valikon, and the Alchemist cast another spell. Another lance of golden fire burst from his white gauntlet, and Kylon snapped up the valikon. The sword shivered in his hands as the golden fire struck it, but the blade unraveled the spell in a flare of brilliant sparks. Kylon kept charging, and the Alchemist snarled beneath his helm and flung something small from his belt. Kylon jumped to the side, kicking off the side of the catapult, and the object missed him by a few yards. It struck the ground and shattered, and he saw the harsh red gleam of Hellfire.

An instant later the Hellfire exploded in a pillar of howling red flame, one yard wide and six tall. The heat struck Kylon like a hammer blow, but he was far enough from the fire that it did not injure him. The Alchemist was moving already, casting another spell. Kylon raced at the Alchemist, white mist swirling around his fist, and leaped as the Alchemist threw another bolt of transmuting fire. The blast missed Kylon, but he heard the familiar tearing shriek of living flesh transmuted into blue crystal as the spell struck the nomads. Kylon landed and swept the valikon at the Alchemist. The Alchemist stumbled back, trying to dodge, but the white metal of his cuirass deflected the valikon’s edge with ease.

But Kylon was already punching with his left hand.

The gauntlet of ice had frozen around his fist, but this time he had made another change to it. In the gladiatorial games of Istarinmul, sometimes the gladiators fought with a weapon called a cestus, an armored glove reinforced with razor-sharp spikes. Kylon had made himself a cestus of ice, the frozen gauntlet ending in a three-inch long spike as sharp as a dagger.

His left fist smashed against the front of the Alchemist’s helmet, and he heard the crunching noise as the icy spike plunged into the Alchemist’s face. There was a gurgling scream of pain, and the spike snapped off as the Alchemist stumbled back, his armored hands flying to his face. That exposed his neck, and Kylon brought the valikon around.

The Alchemist fell motionless to the ground, his blood watering the grass of the steppes.

Kylon looked for other foes, but the nomads had already ridden down and killed the Immortals, though they had taken casualties, and several new crystalline statues stood here and there. Mazyan stepped over a dead Immortal, the smokeless fire in his eyes matching the sword in his hand, and shook his wrist as his blade of force dissipated.

“The catapult is ours,” said Nasser. “Laertes!”

Laertes dropped from his saddle with a grunt, squinting at the catapult, and then at the Grand Wazir’s charging army, the lines in his brow deepening with concentration. Then his eyes widened. “Fortune smiles on us this day. Watch this. Don’t stand in front of the catapult.”

Laertes strode towards the right side of the catapult, towards the massive gears that filled the center of the machine. There was a large windlass there, along with a long steel lever. Laertes squinted at the lever for a moment and nodded to himself, his emotional sense tightening.

“Lord Kylon,” said Laertes. “Get ready. You’re the strongest one here thanks to your sorcery, and we’ll need that strength in a moment. Tibraim, have your men start bringing over amphorae of Hellfire from that wagon.” He pointed to the wagon. “Quickly! And for the gods’ sake don’t drop any of the damned things. Mazyan, Nasser. We had best be ready to fight. Once the enemy realizes what we’re doing, we’ll need to defend ourselves. Or run for our lives.”

Laertes might have retired from the Imperial Legion, but he still gave orders like a centurion, and the nomads hurried to obey. Even Kylon found himself moving to obey, and despite the grim situation he almost smiled. He had heard Caina say more than once that no one gave orders quite like a centurion. It was evidently a common proverb in the Empire, and Kylon saw that it had some truth to it.

“Let’s see what happens,” said Laertes.

He reached up and pulled the steel lever.

There was a massive clang, followed by a tremendous twanging noise, and the catapult’s throwing arm blurred forward with terrific speed. A dozen Hellfire amphorae soared into the air, tumbling over each other. Each one of those amphorae, Kylon judged, would hold about six or seven gallons of Hellfire. The crystal vials that the Alchemists threw in battle held maybe an ounce or two, and they had produce columns of flame as tall as a man. Thirty gallons of Hellfire going up all at once…

Two of the amphorae smashed against each other in midair, shattering, a rain of Hellfire droplets falling upon the advancing Immortals.

“Move!” roared Laertes. “Get that damned Hellfire over here. Twelve amphorae, move! Lord Kylon, give me a hand!”

Laertes seized the handles on the massive windlass, and Kylon saw at once what was needed. He sheathed the valikon, drew on the power of water sorcery, and grabbed the handles, straining. Inch by inch they forced the windlass to rotate, and Nasser hurried to lend his strength to the effort. Kylon suspected it would normally take five or six men to move the damned thing, but with the aid of water sorcery, the three of them managed it, the catapult’s arm lowering foot by foot…

Then the Hellfire erupted.

The remaining amphorae had landed in the midst of the Immortals’ formation, and a bloom of fire thirty yards across erupted from the ground. Kylon looked up for a moment, stunned, and saw hundreds of Immortals flattened by the explosion, saw dozens more go tumbling through the air like leaves caught in the wind, limbs flailing. Crimson flames erupted throughout the formation as the Hellfire from the shattered amphorae ignited, ribbons of fire dancing atop the Immortals. The shock went through the entire center of Erghulan’s army as the Immortals’ charge came to a sudden halt, the Immortals scrambling to get away from the raging fireball.

“Move, damn you!” roared Laertes, stepping away from the windlass. “Get those amphorae into the basket. Quickly, quickly!” The nomads rushed to obey, piling the amphorae into the basket at the end of the arm. Kylon stepped back from the catapult, reaching for the hilt of the valikon. The Immortals had frozen in surprise for a moment, but that moment would not last long. Sooner or later they would rush the catapults, or Erghulan would come to his senses and send his horsemen to ride the down.

Laertes started to reach for the lever, and an idea came to Kylon. Caina had burned down a lot of buildings, though for some reason she always got irritated when someone pointed that out. She thought of herself as a spy, and spies did not draw attention to themselves by burning down buildings.

Kylon, however, was not a spy, and he had no problem with the tactic.

He drew the valikon and hammered with the hilt six times in rapid succession, cracking the seals on the lids of the Hellfire amphorae. At once the crimson fluid started to bead around the cracks.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Laertes. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“Pull the lever!” said Kylon.

Laertes spat a sulfurous curse and pulled the lever. The catapult twanged again, the massive arm heaving forward, and a dozen Hellfire amphorae shot into the air. The ones that Kylon had damaged cracked and split apart from the violence of their flight, spraying a rain of Hellfire droplets along their vector.

Right into the path of the Immortals, who were advancing towards the catapult.

“Huh,” said Laertes. “That might…”

The six intact amphorae struck the ground, shattered, and exploded, fireballs ripping through the lines of the Immortals. They also ignited the rain of Hellfire droplets that the broken amphorae had sprayed across the field, and a howling sheet of flame swept up, burning the trampled grass of the battlefield. For a moment a blazing wall of flame rose up before them, cutting off the Immortals.

And consuming those caught within the firestorm.

The smell of burning flesh was ghastly.

It was a horrible way to die. Kylon regretted the necessity of this, but he had not started this war.

He would, however, help finish it.

That, and Erghulan had been planning on using the Hellfire on the rebels. It would be only just if one of the amphorae had landed upon the Grand Wazir’s head.

The wall of fire burned out quickly, but it had left hundreds of dead Immortals in its wake. The entire center of Erghulan’s army had fallen into disarray, with hundreds of Immortals wounded and hundreds dead, and the rest scattered as they tried to avoid the burning patches of Hellfire.

Tanzir’s army, however, had suffered no such setbacks, and his infantry crashed into the disorganized Immortals.

Even from a mile and a half away, Kylon heard the crash as the Kaltari warriors and the infantry of the southern emirates slammed into the Immortals. A ripple of shock went through the Immortals, and to Kylon’s surprise, their damaged formation collapsed. The Immortals were stunned by the sudden explosions of the Hellfire, and the Kaltari were fresh and rested and eager for blood. The wings of horsemen on the left and right flanks of both Tanzir’s and Erghulan’s armies struck, and for a moment Kylon was sure that Erghulan’s horsemen would hold. Yet the Immortals had fallen back in such disarray that Tanzir’s cavalry flanked their foes, and the horsemen, too, began falling back.

The army of Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku was about to collapse in a rout.

“We need to move, Nasser,” said Laertes. “When that army breaks, they’ll stampede over us. We need to be gone by then or we’re going to get trampled.”

“Agreed,” said Nasser. “We…”

Mazyan went rigid, gazing to the south, the smokeless fire flaring in his eyes once more.

“The Prince is in danger!” said Mazyan.

“What?” said Nasser. “He is likely with Tanzir behind the lines of the Kaltari. There is no risk the Immortals will break through to him…”

“The nagataaru come for him,” said Mazyan. “I must go.”

Kylon felt a surge of alarm, followed by the rage that had filled part of his mind ever since the Red Huntress had cut down Thalastre in the Tower of Kardamnos. Had the Huntress finally decided to reveal herself?

On the other hand, Rhataban might have decided to win the battle by killing the rebel leadership. With the combat prowess he had displayed during his fight with Kylon in the Kaltari Highlands, Kylon knew that the Master Alchemist would be able to kill Tanzir and Sulaman and the others with ease.

“Stormdancer, you must aid me,” said Mazyan.

“Yes,” said Kylon.

“We shall go right through the fighting,” said Mazyan.

“Go,” said Nasser, climbing back into the saddle of his horse. “We shall join you as soon as we can.”

Kylon nodded and drew on the sorcery of air, sprinting alongside Mazyan as the Oath Shadow raced towards the battle.

Chapter 21: Master and Disciple

The stairs spiraled up and up towards the peak of Pyramid Isle, and Callatas cast spells as he walked.

He dismissed his masking spell. It was useless at this point. Kharnaces likely realized that he was here, and the Great Necromancer could see him in any event. Callatas instead cast every warding spell he could manage. As usual, the spell to turn aside any steel blades, and a second to prevent anyone from touching him. He had foolishly let that one lapse in the jungle, assuming that Caina would not attack him.

He would make her regret stealing the Seal.

If, of course, he survived the challenge to come.

Callatas cast more spells as he climbed. A ward to shield his mind from arcane assault. Another ward to repel any creature of the spirit world. A third ward to reflect any spell cast directly at him. A fourth to disrupt any necromantic spell targeted at him. The blaze of the wards’ power surrounded him, a faint shimmer disrupting the air. That many warding spells layered on top of each other would not last long, but the duel would be over before they expired.

That, and Kharnaces could hammer through them in short order.

“No warding spells for me, father?” said Kalgri. She giggled. “Why, you will make a girl feel unwanted!”

He wanted to blast her to ashes against the wall. Unfortunately, right now he needed her help, just as he needed Caina’s help. Once Kharnaces was defeated, he could deal with Caina. And once he had worked the Apotheosis, once he had filled the world with the new humanity, there would no longer be any need to keep a half-failed experiment around any longer.

“Kharnaces will consider you beneath his notice unless you attack him directly,” said Callatas. “Which you should do, of course, if an opportunity presents itself, but strike only if you are utterly certain of success.”

Kalgri snorted. “And what good would that do? His spirit would jump to one of the other undead in this dusty old maze. For that matter, he won’t really be there, will he? We’ll just be fighting the projection we saw on the beach.”

“No,” said Callatas, shaking his head. “No, he’ll be here in the flesh. Such as it is. He can only channel so much power through that projection at once. To activate the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, he shall require the entirety of his strength.”

The stairs continued their winding ascent, and Callatas saw faint traces of green light upon the walls. They were almost to the top of the hill.

“Then what do you need me for?” said Kalgri. He sensed the Voice hissing and whispering in her mind, twisting her thoughts as it had poisoned her mind ever since Callatas had summoned the nagataaru lord so long ago. Of course, the Voice had never been able to control her, which must have irritated the nagataaru noble to no end. But no one had ever been able to control Kalgri.

One simply had to point her in the direction of one’s enemies and stand back.

“Kharnaces commands many servitors,” said Callatas. The green light ahead grew brighter. “They will try to intervene on their master’s behalf. You will stop them from killing me while I fight Kharnaces.”

Kalgri sneered, her white teeth reflecting the green light. “And why should I do that?”

“You like to fight.”

“I like to kill, father,” said Kalgri. “Preferably without fighting. The Balarigar is right about one thing. Fighting fairly is a fool’s game. Why should I not step back and let Kharnaces destroy you?”

Callatas gritted his teeth. “Because I can offer you something better.”

“Better than what? Kharnaces is going to kill the world.” He heard the Voice hissing in her head, urgently pushing her to support Callatas.

“Because you want to kill the world,” said Callatas, grasping the appropriate lever. “Kharnaces wants to destroy the world. There is a difference. If he finishes the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, the barrier to the netherworld will dissolve. The nagataaru will swarm over the world in an instant, along with every other predatory spirit the netherworld can disgorge. They will kill this world in the blink of an eye…and you won’t get to enjoy it.”

Kalgri said nothing, silent as death in her shadow-cloak.

“But if I complete the Apotheosis,” said Callatas, “it will take years for the new humanity to spread across the face of the world. We shall start in Istarinmul. A million people to slaughter there. Then the new humanity shall spread across Anshan and Cyrica and Alqaarin and the Empire and the barbarian north and the Kagari steppes…millions upon millions of people to kill, the old humanity to be supplanted by the new. And you, Huntress, you shall be there to gorge yourself upon their deaths, to feast and feast until even you are glutted with killing.”

She would not, of course. Callatas had every intention of killing her once he had worked the Apotheosis. But Kalgri didn’t need to know that.

She laughed, long and mocking, and Callatas wondered if she guessed his inmost thoughts. Perhaps she did. She had known him for longer than anyone still alive in this world save for Annarah and Nasser…and of them, Kalgri knew him better than anyone else.

It was a strangely disquieting thought.

“Father, father, father,” said Kalgri. “Such delights you use to tempt me! Very well. Lead on, and I shall keep the Harbinger’s vassals from cutting you down.”

“Good,” said Callatas.

“Though, of course,” said Kalgri, “Kharnaces might give me a better offer.”

He wouldn’t. The Harbinger influenced Kharnaces, and the Harbinger would never work with the Voice, not for any reason. From what Callatas had gleaned from Kharnaces, their enmity was older than the world itself.

At last the stairs came to an end, and Callatas stepped upon the flat peak of Pyramid Isle.

It was a rough rectangle of flat white stone about thirty yards across. In all directions he had a view of the lush green jungle, the fringe of beach, and the endless moonlit sea. Under most circumstances, it would have been a view of stunning beauty. The brilliant green glow radiating from the center of the peak covered the island in ghostly green light, making it look like a nightmare or a fever dream.

The reason for the glow floated a few feet off the ground in the very center of the rectangle.

Because of his protective spells, Callatas could look at the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.

Normal, unaided mortal eyes would be unable to do so. Anyone attempting to look at the thing would find themselves looking away, their eyes unable to focus, the reaction involuntary. The mortal mind did not have the ability to process what the Conjurant Bloodcrystal had become.

Because of his spells, Callatas saw a perfect black sphere about six feet across. Its surface was somehow both utterly black, drinking every bit of light that touched it, and yet mirrored, and Callatas glimpsed his distorted reflection within it. Thousands of Maatish hieroglyphs written in green fire appeared and reappeared in its surface, and despite putting off enough light to illuminate the island, it seemed so dark it was like a hole in the air.

In point of fact, it was a hole in the air.

It was both a bloodcrystal and a gate to the netherworld simultaneously. One Ascendant Bloodcrystal could transform its wielder into an immortal god at the cost of every living thing for five hundred miles. Kharnaces had created five Ascendant Bloodcrystals, and with countless spells over the millennia he had merged them together into this thing, this monstrous weapon that was both bloodcrystal and gate at the same time. It was a feat of sorcery beyond Callatas’s imagination. In truth, it would have been a feat of sorcery beyond the abilities of even the mightiest Great Necromancers of old.

It was a weapon that would destroy the world.

Even as Callatas watched, he realized that the Conjurant Bloodcrystal was revolving, and growing a little larger with each revolution. The addition of his blood had activated it. Each revolution would come a little faster, and make it little larger, and it would spin faster and faster and grow larger and larger until the barrier between worlds shattered beneath its weight and the nagataaru swarmed out to destroy humanity.

The creature that had created this awesome weapon floated in front of Callatas, its skeletal, withered feet a few inches from the ground.

As Callatas had predicted, Kharnaces had come in the flesh to finish his work.

The Great Necromancer wore a brilliant robe of white and gold, similar to the ones worn by the College of Alchemists. Given that the College had once served the Great Necromancers long ago, it only made sense that the Alchemists would imitate their long-dead masters. A shining golden torque encircled Kharnaces’s neck, wrought in the shape of a falcon clutching a solar orb in its talons. A golden mask covered Kharnaces’s face, the expression serene and unearthly beautiful, and golden bracers glinted upon his forearms.

His hands were skeletal claws, twisted and blackened, and Callatas knew that the body beneath the golden mask and white robe would be an undead horror. A withered ruin, the same fate Kharnaces sought to inflict upon the world.

The golden mask turned in his direction, and Callatas felt the awesome weight of that terrible mind fall upon him. Within Callatas the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis waited, watching the final resolution of the dispute between the Voice and the Harbinger.

For a moment the Grand Master and the Great Necromancer stared at each other. Kalgri circled midway between them, her cowl thrown back, strands of her blond hair dancing in the hot wind rising from the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, her ghostsilver short sword and dagger ready.

“My wayward pupil,” said Kharnaces. His voice remained unchanged, deep and musical and serene. “I thought you would perish in the jungle.”

“If you had wanted me to die there,” said Callatas, gripping the Staff of Iramis with both hands, “then you should have killed me.”

“There was no need,” said Kharnaces. “You came to stop the Conjurant Bloodcrystal? It is already complete. The activation is underway.” He gestured at the sphere. It had grown to nearly eight feet across. “It is only a matter of time. Neither you nor the so-called ‘Balarigar’ nor anyone else can stop it now.”

“It will be stopped,” said Callatas, “when I defeat you and shatter the bloodcrystal.”

“Even now, at the very end, you still lack the understanding of the truth,” said Kharnaces.

“And what truth is that?” said Callatas. He decided to try and goad Kharnaces into speaking. The Great Necromancer had always been fond of the sound of his own voice, and the more time he wasted with speeches, the longer Caina had to find and destroy the canopic jars.

Assuming that she could do so.

“It is amusing,” said Kharnaces.

“I’m not laughing,” said Callatas.

“You still do not see the truth,” said Kharnaces.

“You still haven’t told me this truth,” said Callatas.

“That you and Caina Amalas desire the same thing,” said Kharnaces.

An incredulous laugh burst from Callatas. “You are mad. She and I are nothing alike. We…”

“You are very alike,” said Kharnaces. “You both cling to different forms of the same delusion.”

“And what delusion is that?” said Callatas, his anger rising again.

“That humanity can be saved,” said Kharnaces.

“I do not want to save humanity,” snarled Callatas. “I want to perfect it, perfect the only thing about mankind that is perfectible. To cast aside all its corruptions, and to make mankind into the perfect, immortal predators, free from dependence upon the weaknesses of civilization.”

“A delusion,” said Kharnaces. He looked a little to the right, the golden mask glinting in the eerie light from the spinning bloodcrystal. Kalgri had moved closer to him, but he did not seem concerned. “That is the final truth that you do not understand.”

“Enlighten me,” said Callatas.

“Mankind cannot be saved,” said Kharnaces. “Mankind does not deserve to be saved. Humanity is a blight upon this world, a disease that shall be purged in the devouring fire of the nagataaru. You know this truth, but you deny it. You think that mankind can be improved.”

“The new humanity will correct the flaws of the old…” started Callatas.

“Your new humanity would be an abomination,” said Kharnaces, “murderous and insane, much like your minion here.” The bony hand flicked in Kalgri’s direction. “What you see as perfectibility is only another kind of corruption. Humanity is a disease upon the world, and it must be purged. Every man, woman, and child must be slain.”

“Are you telling me this?” said Callatas. “Or is the Harbinger speaking to me?”

“I realized this truth long before I ever found the nagataaru, before I ever opened the way to the netherworld, before I ever summoned the Harbinger to me,” said Kharnaces. “Now I am the Harbinger and the Harbinger is me. Our purposes are one, and together we shall bring a merciful end to mankind, just as a farmer brings a merciful death to a horse with a broken leg.”

“No,” said Callatas. “I shall stop you.”

“You will not,” said Kharnaces. “You are already defeated, and you know it not. I know your plan.” Callatas tensed, thinking that Kharnaces had realized that Caina had gone after his canopic jars, but the Great Necromancer kept speaking. “You think to harness the nagataaru, to bind them to mankind as a beast of burden is bound to a plow. You think to betray your pact with Kotuluk Iblis, to violate your promise to hand this world over to him. As if he did not know your intentions.”

“Knowing my intentions,” said Callatas, “and stopping them are two different things entirely.”

He wondered how much longer he could keep Kharnaces talking. Surely he would realize the danger sooner or later.

“Your Apotheosis shall fail even if you succeed,” said Kharnaces. “Your new humanity will kill the old one, and then they shall turn upon each other and kill until this world is purged of the taint of mankind. My way is kinder, quicker, more merciful.”

Callatas let out a laugh. “Since when have you cared about mercy?”

“I have always cared about mercy,” said Kharnaces. “For the very existence of humanity is a torment. Human life is misery and wretchedness without end, their every word a deception, their every action futile, their every success transient. Better to end it swiftly and mercifully without additional suffering. Better to never have existed at all…and soon the endless torment of mankind shall end in their deaths.”

“No,” said Callatas. “I will forge a new humanity, better than the first, and it shall hold dominion over this world forever.”

“Such needless defiance,” said Kharnaces. “You indeed sound like the Balarigar. She offered me such defiance as well.”

Callatas said nothing, his fingers tight against the Staff.

“Tell me,” said Kharnaces, still calm, “do you think the Balarigar has found my canopic jars yet?”

Callatas managed to keep the alarm from his face. “Who?”

“Caina Amalas, of course,” said Kharnaces. “The Balarigar. The instrument that, for some reason, the Knight of Wind and Air has employed in his feeble efforts to defend this world from Kotuluk Iblis and the nagataaru.”

“She is dead,” said Callatas. “The nagataaru killed her in the jungle.”

“Of course she is not dead,” said Kharnaces with gentle reproof. “My servitors saw her in the lower levels of the Tomb. Your plan is transparently obvious. You shall challenge me and draw my attention, while the Balarigar proceeds to the throne chamber and destroys my canopic jars.”

“Then why haven’t you stopped me?” said Callatas.

“Because there is no danger,” said Kharnaces. “I am the Harbinger and the Harbinger is me. My soul has fused to the nagataaru. Even if the Amalas woman succeeds in destroying the canopic jars, it will not destroy me. For that matter, she will be unable to destroy the canopic jars. I have ringed them with wards potent enough to withstand even a valikarion armed with a ghostsilver weapon. And yet even if by some twist of fate she manages to destroy the canopic jars and you manage to defeat me, you have already lost. The Conjurant Bloodcrystal has activated. There is no power on this world or any other than can stop it. Even if by some mischance you overcome me, you will not be able to stop…”

Callatas struck. The time for delay had passed. If Kharnaces had been telling the truth, if his words had not been a misdirection, then Callatas’s only hope was to defeat Kharnaces and destroy the Conjurant Bloodcrystal himself. And his only chance of defeating Kharnaces was to take the Great Necromancer off guard with every scrap of arcane power he could gather together.

The spell ripped from his fingers, a piercing thrust of blue sparks to shatter any wards around Kharnaces, followed by a hammer of psychokinetic force to rip apart the undead body. Kharnaces actually staggered back several steps from the weight of the attack, a thunderclap ringing over Pyramid Isle. He crossed his arms over his chest, the golden bracers flashing, and a haze of blue light surrounded him, a potent warding spell that unraveled Callatas’s attack.

“So be it,” said Kharnaces. “If you choose to uselessly fight the inevitable, rather than accepting the necessary end of humanity, then I can oblige you.”

He gestured, necromantic green fire erupting around him, and over the sides of the hill swarmed dozens of his undead warriors, khopesh blades in hand.

Callatas and Kalgri fought for their lives.

Chapter 22: Bearer Of The Last Valikon

Kylon sprinted through the chaos of the battle, following Mazyan’s lead.

Mazyan, somehow, forged an unerring path through the collapsing formations of Immortals and the charging Kaltari, surging with the inhuman speed granted by his djinni. Around them the battle raged, the formations of Kaltari holding their own as the Immortals’ lines collapsed. Patches of Hellfire still burned here and there upon the ground, the air heavy with the smells of smoke and burned flesh. The emotions of the battle washed over Kylon’s arcane senses, rage and terror and despair and exultation and wild bloodlust. They seemed to form a drumbeat inside his head, thundering in time to his heartbeat, as if the drums of the armies still beat to sound the march.

It was a ghastly sensation. Kylon wished he could have drawn back his arcane senses, but he dared not. There were nagataaru among the host, Rhataban and possibly the Red Huntress herself, and Kylon needed to sense them coming.

“Faster!” barked Mazyan, and he leaped, soaring over a struggling knot of Immortals and Kaltari. Kylon wished he could have stopped to help the Kaltari warriors, but the Kaltari could stand against the Immortals.

They could not fight someone like Rhataban or the Huntress.

So Kylon kept running, and followed Mazyan’s leap over the melee with a burst of air sorcery.

Then they had passed the main part of the battle, though here and there groups of stragglers pushed forward to join the fight. Kylon spotted a band of horsemen ahead, waiting beneath the banners of the Padishah and the House of Shahan.

Even as he looked, the horsemen scattered, dissolving into a melee, and the presence of the nagataaru brushed against Kylon’s mind.

Several nagataaru. One powerful, several weaker.

Rhataban had brought assistance.

Kylon spotted the white-armored Master Alchemist charging at the horsemen. His massive hammer blurred in his hands, and the power of the impact threw both a horse and its rider into the air, the horse screaming horribly, the rider flailing before he landed with bone-crushing force.

Around Rhataban charged creatures from a nightmare.

The things stood about as tall as a living man, albeit much thicker. If forced to describe them, Kylon would have said they looked like men with the armored carapaces and pincers of beetles, their faces distorted and twisted, their eyes burning with the mad purple fires of the nagataaru. Manes of twisted, barbed tentacles writhed around their heads, and their fingers and toes ended in serrated, dagger-like claws.

Kylon had faced these creatures with Strabane at Shaman Hill in the Kaltari Highlands. They were called kadrataagu. Sometimes when a nagataaru possessed a living mortal, the mortal maintained his own personality and will, like Rhataban and the Huntress and Malik Rolukhan. Sometimes, though, the nagataaru overshadowed its host, dominating the body utterly.

The kadrataagu were the result, fast and strong and vicious, and Rhataban had brought a score of them with him.

The kadrataagu were tearing their way through the guard of horsemen, forcing their way towards Tanzir and Sulaman and the other leaders of the army. Tanzir had his sword out, as did Sulaman, but Kylon had no illusions how long either of them would last again the kadrataagu or Rhataban himself.

A shout rang out, and a mass of warriors in black armor charged into the fray, broadswords rising and falling. For a terrible moment Kylon was sure that a group of Immortals had broken through the battle, but then he saw the purple cloaks of Imperial Guards. Lord Martin had sent his men to the defense of Sulaman and Tanzir. Rhataban whirled and gestured, a gout of golden fire snapping from his white gauntlet, and two of the Imperial Guards transmuted into statues of gleaming blue crystal.

But by then, Kylon and Mazyan had reached the battle.

Mazyan leaped, and as he reached the apex of his arc, the sword of smokeless flame appeared in his hand. He brought the blade slamming down onto Rhataban’s back as the Master Alchemist killed an Imperial Guard with a sweep of his massive hammer, and for a moment Kylon thought the fight would end then and there.

Yet the white armor must have been enspelled against even such a potent weapon. Mazyan’s burning sword rebounded from the white armor, though the blow sent Rhataban stumbling. The Master Alchemist whirled with the inhuman speed of his nagataaru, and Mazyan dismissed his sword of smokeless flame, leaping back and drawing his scimitar as the hammer missed him by mere inches.

“Lord Kylon!” called Rhataban, his eyes flaring with purple fire beneath his white helmet, his gold-trimmed cloak streaming behind him as he strode forward. “Hiding behind this pathetic djinni?” He laughed, and Kylon heard the snarl of the nagataaru beneath his voice, felt the spirit’s malice and hate. “How appropriate! For the Court of the Azure Sovereign is as broken and useless as you are. The Azure Sovereign is imprisoned, his vassals scattered and reduced to impotent games, and…”

“By the Living Flame!” barked Mazyan. “You nagataaru talk too damned much!”

Rhataban glared at him as the kadrataagu continued their struggle against the Imperial Guards.

“He’s right,” said Kylon. He raised the valikon, the blade burning with white flames in answer to the nagataaru around him. “You do talk too damned much.”

“Then hear me speak one more time, Kylon of House Kardamnos, failure and exile,” said Rhataban. “You shall die today, here and now. And then, once you are slain, there will be no one to protect the Balarigar. I shall find her, or another follower of the Grand Master shall find her, and we shall kill her in great pain.”

Kylon smiled. “Then she is still alive? Thank you for that news. It is most reassuring.”

Rhataban’s mockery melted into raw fury. “Take him!”

A dozen of the kadrataagu broke off from their struggle against the Imperial Guards and the emir’s guards and charged at Kylon, while Rhataban himself attacked Mazyan, his hammer blurring back and forth as the Oath Shadow retreated. Kylon gripped the valikon’s hilt in both hands, the ghostsilver blade burning before him, the Iramisian characters carved into the sword glowing with their own power.

The kadrataagu closed around Kylon in a circle, and then he moved.

He dodged to the left and leaped, jumping over the nearest kadrataagu, and as he landed he slashed down. The carapaces of the kadrataagu looked as hard as black marble, but the valikon’s blade ripped through the strange armor like paper. The white fire of the sword flashed as the weapon destroyed the nagataaru, and the kadrataagu shrank into human form, a gaunt, crazed-looking Istarish man of middle years with a wild gray beard, his face twisted with rage. He didn’t even seem to notice his garish wound, at least until he collapsed to the ground as his blood seeped into the soil.

The other kadrataagu came at Kylon, and he retreated, snapping the valikon back and forth to block the slashes of their claws. His foes recoiled from the touch of the valikon’s burning blade, shying away from the white fire. Their human hosts might have been insane with mad rage, but the nagataaru within them knew that the valikon could end their eternal existence. Yet the nagataaru also wanted Kylon dead, and they fanned out around him, snapping and clawing. He sidestepped, taking off a kadrataagu’s hand at the wrist, and then split the creature’s skull.

It shrank back to human form, collapsing to the trampled grass.

Kylon leaped backwards and landed a half a dozen yards away, and the rest of the kadrataagu stampeded after him. He caught a brief glimpse of Mazyan’s furious duel with Rhataban, scimitar and hammer blurring back and forth, and saw that Mazyan was getting the worst of the battle.

Then the kadrataagu came again at Kylon, and all his attentions turned to his defense.

He managed to cut down one of the kadrataagu, and then he had to retreat again, the rest of the creatures pursuing him. They were driving him towards the battle. If he was forced to stop to fight the Immortals, or if he stumbled over a dead or dying man, the kadrataagu would have him in short order. Kylon retreated, parrying and ducking and dodging. He managed to kill two more of the kadrataagu, but the rest swarmed after him.

A claw caught Kylon across the left shoulder. His armor deflected it, but the force of the blow staggered him, and he barely kept the kadrataagu from driving him to the ground, like hyenas swarming a wounded Anshani grass lion. Through the press he saw Rhataban driving the Oath Shadow back step by step. Blood dripped down Mazyan’s face and his right forearm from glancing hits, his scowl more ferocious than usual.

The kadrataagu swarmed around Kylon once more. He cut down another of the creatures, the valikon flashing with white fire, and opened a gap long enough to leap free before they encircled him. The kadrataagu continued their pursuit, driving Kylon towards a group of Kaltari warriors struggling against a band of Immortals. A little further, and he would run out of room to retreat…

Steel flashed overhead, and a rain of javelins fell into the kadrataagu.

The creatures loosed horrible, metallic screams, frozen in shock for a moment, and Kylon seized the opening, sweeping the valikon with massive two-handed swings. He cut down one, two, three kadrataagu in rapid succession as the creatures recovered from the volley of javelins. One of the kadrataagu flung itself at him, jaws yawning wide, its mane of barbed tentacles lashing like whips. Kylon dodged, but the kadrataagu’s charge clipped him, and he lost his footing and dropped to one knee, trying to get the valikon up in time to block.

A blue spark flared before his vision and slammed into the kadrataagu. The creature let out another horrible scream, blue sparks crawling up its limbs, and then it shrank back into human form. Blood poured from his mouth and nose, and the man collapsed as Kylon heaved himself back up.

He saw a line of Imperial Guards charge into battle, Lord Martin and centurion Tylas leading the Guards. Lady Claudia stood behind them, blue sparks flaring around her hands as she began her spell to banish a nagataaru spirit. Martin’s eyes met Kylon’s across the line of the kadrataagu, who wavered between their old foe and their new.

“Go!” shouted Martin in his commander’s voice. “You’re the only one of us who can deal with that Master Alchemist! Go!”

The Imperial Guards reached the kadrataagu, attacking as a shield wall, swords stabbing over the tops of their shields. The kadrataagu screamed in fury and attacked with claws and fangs and barbed tentacles. Kylon sprinted around the edge of the battle, the valikon blazing with fury, and headed towards Mazyan and Rhataban.

A ring of a dozen corpses surrounded the duel, both Imperial Guards and Istarish horsemen. Mazyan continued retreating before Rhataban’s furious attacks, the hammer like a miniature avalanche of steel in the Master Alchemist’s armored hands. Mazyan’s scimitar had torn the gold-trimmed white cloak to shreds, but Rhataban was otherwise unharmed.

It was time to see if Kylon could change that.

He ran at Rhataban, calling the sorcery of water, white mist hardening around his hand. It formed into another gauntlet of ice, studded with twin razor-edged spikes. Mazyan saw Kylon coming, and launched a furious series of attacks at Rhataban. The Master Alchemist retreated, blocking some of Mazyan’s attacks with his hammer and dodging around the others.

Kylon leaped over the last dozen yards and joined the fight, launching attacks at Rhataban, the valikon rebounding from the white armor. Rhataban ducked away, and Kylon punched with his left fist, aiming for the opening in Rhataban’s helm. This time, though, Rhataban saw the trap coming, and ducked his head. Kylon’s fist slammed into the crest of his helm, rocking Rhataban’s head back, but the frozen gauntlet shattered into glittering shards. Rhataban snapped his hammer up, the edge clipping Kylon’s chest. He stumbled, and Rhataban went on the offensive, launching quick sweeping blows with his hammer, and Kylon had to retreat, using the sorcery of air to stay ahead of the Master Alchemist’s storm of steel.

And as Rhataban attacked, golden fire blazed to life around his hands.

Kylon saw the spell coming and jumped backwards, raising the valikon in guard. Once more Rhataban unleashed a bolt of transmuting fire, and Kylon caught it upon the valikon’s blade. This time, though, Rhataban added a blast of psychokinetic force just behind the transmuting fire. The valikon unraveled the transmutation spell, but the wall of invisible force hit Kylon across his entire body. He flew backwards and hit the ground, the breath exploding from his lungs.

Rhataban leaped after Kylon, raising the hammer over his head with both hands, preparing a blow that would likely reduce Kylon’s skull to crimson mist. He still could not get a decent breath, but he drew on the sorcery of water and shoved. The push sent him rolling away, and Rhataban’s hammer came thundering down, the head sinking into the ground. Kylon staggered to his feet, sucking in air, and Rhataban ripped the hammer free, preparing another strike as Kylon lifted the valikon in guard.

Mazyan saved him then, his scimitar blurring in his hand. Rhataban let out an enraged snarl and swung the hammer, forcing Mazyan back. Kylon shifted the valikon to his right hand and drew a dagger with his left, wreathing the blade with white mist. He flung the dagger, catching Rhataban on the left leg, and frost sheathed the white armor plates, freezing them together.

Kylon dashed at Rhataban, but once again the Master Alchemist anticipated the tactic. His left fist smashed against his leg, shattering the ice, and he spun, swinging the hammer with all his strength behind the blow. Kylon ducked, the hammer just missing the top of his head, and Rhataban lunged after him. Once again Kylon had to retreat, trying to keep ahead of the hammer.

He almost stumbled again. His joints ached from the battering they had taken, and his head throbbed from the amount of sorcerous force he had already used. The fighting at the catapults had taken its toll. Kylon had been rested and ready the last time he had faced Rhataban, and he had still only dueled the Master Alchemist to a draw. Kylon could match Rhataban for speed and strength, but Rhataban had better armor and access to powerful sorcery that Kylon could not contest. If he didn’t think of something clever, right now, Rhataban was going to kill him and Mazyan, and then Prince Sulaman and Lord Tanzir and the other leaders of the rebellion.

And worst of all, Rhataban had promised to find and kill Caina. He had failed to save Thalastre from the nagataaru, and he might fail to save Caina from them…

He set himself, trying to catch his breath, preparing for Rhataban’s next attack.

Instead, Rhataban laughed, long and loud, purple fire flashing in his eyes. He sounded…exultant, triumphant.

Yet he hadn’t won the fight yet.

“Fool!” said Rhataban. “Do you think you can overcome the Grand Master’s design?” There was manic, furious glee in his voice. “I am the first of the new humanity! And I shall slay you, and all those who stand before me!”

Why the devil hadn’t he kept attacking Kylon?

The advantage had been his. If he had kept pushing, he would have won the fight then and there. Why stop to gloat? Surely he couldn’t be that foolish. Was it some kind of trap? Kylon reached for the sorcery of water, extending his senses. He felt Rhataban’s furious emotions, felt the stirring malice of the nagataaru within him. Rhataban’s emotional aura felt exultant, manic, almost as if…

Kylon blinked.

Almost as if he was drunk.

He sensed something else, the agony of the wounded men lying near him. A dozen Immortals lay scattered on the ground nearby, all of them mortally wounded, all them in the final throes of dying. The nagataaru fed on death and torment, and the Red Huntress had feasted as she carved her way through the Tower of Kardamnos.

And now it was Rhataban’s turn to gorge himself upon the misery of those dying around him.

Kylon remembered the words of the Emissary of the Living Flame, and a cold chill swept through him.

She had said the nagataaru were slaves to their vile nature. The Red Huntress had never let her bloodlust put her at personal risk. Yet did Rhataban have that kind of iron self-control? A drunken man made stupid decisions, and if Rhataban was drunk upon the agony of the dying Immortals…

“Rhataban!” said Kylon, stepping backwards among the dying Immortals, closer to the aura of agony radiating from them. “Enough talk! Come and finish it! Or are the Grand Master’s creatures all talk? Little wonder you have failed so far!”

Rhataban howled in outrage and cast a spell, flinging another shaft of golden fire in Kylon’s direction. The valikon was ready in his hands, and he deflected the spell, unraveling it in a flash of light and sparks. Rhataban snarled in fury again, striding forward as he raised his hammer. Mazyan stalked after the Master Alchemist, and Rhataban circled to the side, keeping both Kylon and Mazyan in sight.

“I’m still alive!” said Kylon, retreating past another group of dying Immortals, the valikon a steady white flame in his hands. “You couldn’t kill me at the Kaltari Highlands and you can’t kill me now!” Angry, he needed to make Rhataban angry, he needed to make the Master Alchemist lose all control. “Come on, what are you waiting for? Grand Master Callatas to come and hold your hand?”

Rhataban snarled and brought his hammer down, crushing the skull of a nearby wounded Immortal. Kylon flinched at the callousness of it. Purple fire pulsed within Rhataban’s helm as he laughed, blood sliding from the head of his hammer. He might have killed the dying in Immortal in a fit of rage, but the nagataaru within him fed on that death, passing some of the stolen power to its host.

Maybe making Khataban angry hadn’t been such a good idea.

Kylon and Mazyan both charged at once, Kylon coming from Rhataban’s left, Mazyan coming from the right. The Oath Shadow launched a flurry of dazzling strikes with his scimitar, the blade flashing and flying, and Rhataban retreated, blocking with his hammer or letting his armor take the impacts. Rhataban lifted his hammer, and Kylon realized what Rhataban was going to do.

“Mazyan!” shouted Kylon. “Duck!”

Mazyan was a brilliant swordsman, his prowess further enhanced by the power of his djinni, but his swordplay was formal. Kylon suspected he had been trained by the best masters of the blade that Istarinmul had to offer, just as Kylon had been trained by the best sword masters and stormdancers that Andromache had been able to hire. Yet once he had been banished from New Kyre and forced to earn his way across Anshan by fighting in gladiatorial games, Kylon had become familiar with the brutal, more direct fighting methods in those games.

He doubted Mazyan had enjoyed a similar experience.

So the Oath Shadow didn’t see it coming when Rhataban released the handle of his hammer and punched Mazyan in the face.

Mazyan, to his credit, started to dodge the instant Kylon shouted his warning, so Rhataban’s armored fist hit him in the top of the head rather than in the center of the face. Nevertheless, the blow still snapped his head back, and Mazyan stumbled and fell to the ground. Kylon could not tell if the punch had stunned him or killed him. Rhataban raised his hammer for the killing blow, but by then Kylon had reached him, swinging the valikon in a blaze of white fire. Rhataban started to dodge, but the blow had been a feint, and Kylon changed the direction and slammed the valikon into his right arm, the edge sinking into a gap between the white armor plates.

Rhataban roared, jerking back, and his hammer rose. Kylon dodged, and the Master Alchemist came at him in a rage, swinging the hammer without the slightest trace of fatigue. Even a glancing hit would have shattered Kylon’s bones and left him helpless before the killing blow. He had no choice but to retreat, using the sorcery of air to keep ahead of Rhataban’s furious attacks, using short leaps to jump out of range of the Master Alchemist’s inexorable advance.

Short leaps that made Rhataban angrier and angrier.

The plan sharpened in Kylon’s mind. He had to make Rhataban even angrier, push his frustration to the breaking point.

He drew as much air sorcery as he could manage and jumped backwards, landing a dozen yards away. Rhataban, for all his nagataaru-fueled speed, could not keep up, but Kylon could not keep leaping like this for much longer.

“Still can’t kill me?” shouted Kylon. “Perhaps the Grand Master should have chosen a worthier instrument!”

Rhataban came to a stop, golden fire blazing around his left hand. Kylon had seen him use that spell in the Kaltari Highlands, and he braced himself, drawing as much of the sorcery of water as his weary mind could hold.

“A poor choice,” said Rhataban, “for your final words!”

A cone of golden fire burst from his hand and raked across the ground, transmuting a circular patch of grassy steppe into sucking quicksand. Kylon felt his boots start to sink into it, felt the muck start to grasp at his feet, but he had already began his leap, the sorcery of water hurtling him backwards to land at the edge of the quicksand pool. He staggered, struggling to keep his balance as Rhataban hurtled forward. The Master Alchemist charged right through the pool of quicksand, and as Kylon had hoped, the quicksand did not hinder its creator in the slightest. What was the point in the spider spinning a web that he could not escape himself?

Unless the web was altered…

Kylon touched the edge of the quicksand as Rhataban rushed towards him and drew upon the sorcery of water, white mist dancing around his fingers.

And as he did, he froze the water within the quicksand.

Rhataban was up to his knees in the stuff as it solidified into gritty ice, and he came to a jerking stop, his eyes widening. The hammer continued its forward momentum, and it slammed into the ice, shattering it into a thousand pieces, with Rhataban bent over the hammer as he struggled to recover his balance.

It was Kylon’s chance, perhaps the only chance he would ever get.

He leaped forward and brought the valikon down onto the gap between Rhataban’s helmet and the top of his white cuirass. The blade sank into his neck with a crunch, the Iramisian sigils blazing, and white fire poured from the weapon and into the wound, attacking the nagataaru within his flesh. Rhataban’s eyes went wide, and he clawed at Kylon, but the strength had drained from his limbs. White fire struggled against the purple flame in his eyes, and Kylon saw the desperate plea for mercy there, felt the sudden horror in Rhataban’s emotions and his nagataaru.

“You should not,” said Kylon, ripping the valikon free, “have threatened Caina.”

Rhataban started to rise, but before he could, Kylon swung the valikon with all the strength he could muster, and the blade sheared through Rhataban’s neck. The valikon flashed like a bolt of lightning as it destroyed the powerful nagataaru within Rhataban, the arcane shock of the spirit’s destruction shooting up Kylon’s arm.

The white-armored body fell backwards into the pool of slushy quicksand.

Kylon stepped out of the pool, breathing hard, every inch of his body aching. But the battle was not over yet, and there were other foes to fight. He lifted the valikon once more, the white fires around the blade dimming, and looked for the kadrataagu.

But the kadrataagu had all been slain. The Imperial Guards were running towards him, led by Lord Martin and Tylas, and Kylon spotted Lady Claudia and four Guards heading towards Mazyan. He wondered why, and then recalled that Claudia had trained as a physician before meeting Martin.

Kylon turned, looking towards the battle.

But the battle was over.

He had been so focused on Rhataban that he hadn’t even noticed.

The Grand Wazir’s army had broken and fled, Tanzir’s cavalry in pursuit. The slain carpeted the ground, but Kylon saw far more Immortals than Kaltari warriors among the dead. Patches of Hellfire still burned here and there, and columns of black smoke were stark against the blue sky and the blazing Istarish sun.

Kylon closed his eyes and let out a ragged, aching breath.

“Lord Kylon?” said Martin.

Kylon opened his eyes and turned.

“Are you wounded?” said Martin.

“No,” said Kylon. “Just bruised a bit.” He looked at Claudia. “Is Mazyan…”

The Oath Shadow sat up, helped by Claudia, his customary scowl in place.

“Alive and truculent, apparently,” said Martin.

“Thank you for your help,” said Kylon. “Those kadrataagu had me.”

“It seemed only fair,” said Martin, “given that we could not have dealt with Master Rhataban ourselves.”

“That fight,” said Tylas. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lord, but that fight…gods of the Empire. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast.”

Kylon nodded and tried to think of something to say. Gods, he was tired, but there was work to be done yet. He saw Tanzir and Sulaman with the other emirs, their battered guards reforming around them, and part of Kylon’s weary mind pointed out that this would be the ideal time for the Huntress to strike, that she was perfectly capable of sacrificing Rhataban to take a shot at Sulaman and Tanzir.

But all of Rhataban’s threats, at least, had died with him.

“Aye,” said Kylon, looking at the dead Master Alchemist. “I suppose I was just fast enough.”

Chapter 23: Conjurant

Caina ran up the tunnel, the pyrikon staff glowing in her left hand, Morgant and Annarah running after her. The hieroglyphs lining the wall seemed to dance and flicker in the light from the staff, as if they had taken on lives of their own.

Given the titanic forces swirling over their heads, Caina would not have dismissed the possibility.

At her suggestion, Annarah’s pyrikon had returned to its bracelet form, shielding her from detection. Caina had tucked away the Seal in her belt pouch. Without it, she could not control the nagataaru, but they could not find her, either.

She suspected the battle raging atop the hill would draw the attention of every nagataaru on Pyramid Isle.

Even through hundreds of feet of solid rock, the vision of the valikarion saw the storm of power snarling above her. The Conjurant Bloodcrystal’s aura spread across Pyramid Isle like a shroud of pale green light, and it was getting larger. At its heart, Caina saw something horrible, something indescribable, like a knife wound into the walls of the world itself. The Conjurant Bloodcrystal was peeling back the barrier between the mortal world and the netherworld like a hunter skinning a deer, and when it finished, the nagataaru and a thousand other horrors would boil through the wound.

Despite the titanic aura, she saw the duel between Callatas and Kharnaces, bursts of force snapping back and forth between the Great Necromancer and the Grand Master. Caina did not completely understand how the vision of the valikarion worked or the limits of its range, but if she saw the glow of the duel through hundreds of yards of rock, then the spells the two sorcerers wielded had to be powerful indeed.

That said, practically everything in the Tomb of Kharnaces glowed with sorcerous power.

“Almost to the library,” said Caina.

“I know,” said Morgant. “I’ve been here before. Several times.”

“When we first came here,” said Annarah, her pyrikon bracelet giving off a faint buzzing noise as it shielded her from the sight of the nagataaru, “I thought we would return within months. By the Divine, I never thought I would return a century and a half after I left…and then once more after that.” She sighed. “How did it come to this?”

Caina opened her mouth to answer, and then a faint vibration went through the floor, accompanied by a flare of power from above, her skin crawling and tingling. Either Kharnaces or Callatas had just unleashed a potent spell.

“Hurry,” said Caina, and they ran onward, following the sloping passage as it climbed higher into the hill.

Then they strode through archway and into the library of Kharnaces.

The library was a large rectangular room, filled with rows of bamboo shelves. The shelves had been divided into small cubbies, and each cubby held a single rolled papyrus scroll, its shelf labeled with hieroglyphs. Twenty-five centuries had passed since Kharnaces had been entombed here, but the papyrus scrolls looked as fresh as if they had been written yesterday. Caina saw the faint glow of the preservation spells that crackled around the bamboo shelves, the wards that kept the scrolls preserved over the grind of the centuries.

If they lived through this, Caina promised, she would return here and destroy the library.

In their way, the scrolls in this room were as dangerous as anything she had ever faced. Kharnaces had a complete library of the necromantic lore once wielded by the priests of Maat. Within this library were instructions for becoming Undying, for creating every kind of bloodcrystal, for raising armies of undead.

And thanks to the knowledge that Kharnaces had put into her head, she could read every single one of the scrolls and learn all their dark secrets, discover spells and lore that the Umbarian Order could only dream of possessing.

Later. She could worry about that later.

Like after she had eluded the dozen undead warriors making their way through the aisles of shelves. Caina came to a stop, sweeping the light from her staff back and forth. The undead warriors moved in a slow pattern through the shelves, the purple flames writhing in the black craters of their eyes.

“I don’t think they can see us,” said Caina. "They don't have the spells on their helmets like the other warriors did."

“No,” said Morgant, “but they’re searching for us. Look at how they’re moving. A systematic search, just like in the jungle. But since we’re not going to stop to have a shouting match with Callatas about our feelings, it ought to be easier to avoid them.”

Caina and Annarah shared a look. Though Morgant did have a point.

“So long as we don’t touch them,” said Caina, “we can get through. They can’t see us or hear us. The door to Kharnaces’s throne room is on the other side of the library.” She watched the undead warriors move for a moment. “Follow me. Don’t touch them.”

She stepped into the main aisle, hurrying to avoid a pair of undead. The warriors continued their steady search of the library. Annarah and Morgant darted after her, and Caina ducked between a pair of shelves, waiting until a warrior had passed. She counted to five, checked the timing in her head, and then hurried back into the main aisle. Green light flickered in the gloom ahead, and Caina remembered the double row of hieroglyphs that had surrounded Kharnaces’s throne, hieroglyphs that had burned with green fire.

They were almost there.

No other undead warriors were in the way, and Caina broke into a sprint, Morgant and Annarah running after her. They tore through the archway and into the chamber beyond. The undead kept moving through the library, some of them striding down the corridor towards the entry hall. So far they did not seem inclined to cover ground they had already searched, though Caina knew they could not count upon that.

She stepped into the throne room of Kharnaces.

Kharnaces had once commanded the Inferno in the mountains south of the Vale of Fallen Stars, and the throne room in the Tomb was a smaller version of that imposing chamber. The floor had been covered in gleaming marble, and intricate Maatish reliefs covered the columns and the walls. In the Inferno, the reliefs had been scenes of Kharnaces’s triumph over the barbarians on the outskirts of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun. Here, they showed scenes of his defeat and his binding within the Tomb, the hieroglyphs describing Kharnaces’s crimes and punishments in great detail…

Caina made herself look away. She could read Maatish hieroglyphics now, but it gave her a nasty headache.

A dais stood in the center of the room, supporting an elaborately wrought stone throne. The same double ring of burning hieroglyphs that Caina remembered from her last visit shone around the throne in a ring about seven feet across. The last time the body of Kharnaces himself had occupied the throne, robed and masked, while his projection wandered the Tomb.

His undead form was gone.

“It seems Kharnaces has to activate the Conjurant Bloodcrystal in the flesh,” said Annarah.

Morgant shrugged. “If he’s going to end the world, it’s only polite to do it in person.”

Caina stared at the throne. A maze of powerful spells surrounded it, burning like molten metal to the vision of the valikarion. The double ring of hieroglyphs was a ward of surpassing power, while the throne itself bore several spells.

“Caina, you were right,” said Annarah. “Look. There’s a little door on the side of the throne. Kharnaces must have secured his canopic jars in there.” She worked a quick spell, her pyrikon flashing. “There are several concentrations of potent necromantic force within the throne. Those are likely the canopic jars.”

Caina nodded, thinking hard. “I thought so.”

“So how do we unravel those wards?” said Morgant.

“I’m not sure,” said Caina.

###

Callatas dragged the Staff of Iramis through the air, shouting as he poured his will into the ancient relic. Gray light and mist rose in a sheet before him as the Staff tore open a gate to the netherworld, and Callatas sent his will into the gate, straining as he tried to divide his concentration between half a dozen warding spells at once.

His spell thundered into the other world…and the spirits answered.

Crimson flames erupted across the hilltop as a dozen ifriti, cousins to the fire elemental Cassander Nilas had summoned to kill Caina Amalas, swarmed into the material world. Normally, summoning a creature as powerful as an ifrit required a potent spell with a great deal of preparation. The power of the Staff could rip into the netherworld and draw forth as many ifriti as Callatas wanted. Of course, without the Seal, he had no way to command those ifriti, and the spell to bind them took far more time and effort than he could spare right now.

Fortunately, it didn’t matter.

The ifriti spirits went on a rampage, burning their way through the undead creatures swarming over the hilltop. That gave Kalgri a respite, allowing her to strike down more and more of the undead baboons and warriors. That in turn kept the undead away from Callatas, which let him turn more of his attention to Kharnaces.

Little good it did.

Kharnaces unleashed another attack, a lance of shadow and green flame that would instantly kill anyone it touched and raise their corpse as an undead creature. Callatas poured all his strength into his ward against necromantic force, and blue light and green fire howled around him, the spell struggling against his wards. Kharnaces’s spell, backed by the fury of the Harbinger, ripped against Callatas’s protections. It took every bit of Callatas’s strength to hold the ward in place, but he was not without his own powers…and he could also draw upon the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis to fuel his sorcery.

Odd that Kotuluk Iblis permitted him to do so. Perhaps that was part of the contest between the Voice and the Harbinger. Kharnaces could wield spells augmented by the Harbinger’s power, but Kotuluk Iblis in turn fueled Callatas’s sorcery, and to balance that disadvantage the Voice was trapped within an unreliable and mercurial murderess.

The contest between the Voice and the Harbinger had been going on for millennia, Callatas suspected, but he would win this battle.

If Kharnaces didn’t flatten him first.

At last the pressure of the necromantic spell ended, and Callatas staggered back, breathing hard, his head ringing from exertion. He managed to catch his balance by driving the end of the Staff against the ground. It would be a grim joke if after a century and a half of struggle he tripped and fell to his death along the hill’s cliff-like slopes.

The ifriti raged back and forth along the hilltop, seeking targets for their fury, and Callatas last another spell. It was a simple spell, little more than an exercise, a conjuration of elemental water around Kharnaces. None of it penetrated his wards, and even if it had, it wouldn’t have mattered, because Kharnaces’s undead form had no need to draw breath.

Yet it drew the attention of the ifriti. The ifriti were elemental spirits of flame, and they had warred against the elemental spirits of water for countless ages, just as the nagataaru had struggled against the djinni of the Court of the Azure Sovereign.

Consequently, they hated elemental water, and it drew them like lions to a wounded gazelle.

The ifriti rushed at Kharnaces, a dozen of them surging over him like a tide of flame. The Great Necromancer lifted his hands in an unhurried gesture, and snarling bolts of blue lightning erupted from him. The bolts struck the ifriti, shattering the bonds that held them to the mortal world, and one by one they winked out of existence, drawn back into the netherworld.

Callatas cast another spell as Kharnaces banished the ifriti, drawing as much power as he could hold and augmenting it with the strength of Kotuluk Iblis. A blue spark the size of a man’s head snarled above his palm, and he thrust his arm, flinging the spell at Kharnaces. It was a spell of dispelling, the most powerful one that Callatas knew, designed to shatter wards and pierce arcane protections. If it touched Kharnaces himself, it might sever the spells upon his body, sending his spirit flying back to his canopic jars, though the Great Necromancer would be able to claim another body in short order. That might give Caina enough time to find and destroy those damned canopic jars.

Assuming, of course, that Kharnaces had been lying when he had claimed that his soul had merged with the Harbinger, that destroying the canopic jars would not stop him. Callatas had assumed that was a bluff. If it wasn’t a bluff, then Kharnaces had already won…

No. He would not give in to despair. He had come so far, defeated so many obstacles, and was so close to completing the Apotheosis. Callatas refused to give in now.

The Balarigar had done such a good job of disrupting his plans that she could damned well turn that talent for mayhem against Kharnaces.

His attack drilled into Kharnaces’s wards, and the Great Necromancer stumbled, his white robes billowing around his withered body in the gale rising from the scattered fires burning atop the hill. Callatas felt his enemy’s wards buckle from the pressure of the spell, and he fought throughout his exhaustion and summoned enough power to cast a transmutation spell. Still the blue sparks snarled around Kharnaces, ripping away his wards, and Callatas flung a bolt of golden fire.

The spell struck Kharnaces’s remaining wards, and rebounded from the Great Necromancer, hurtling back towards Callatas. He cursed in alarm and cast another spell, reinforcing his own wards. The transmutation spell struck him and reflected back at Kharnaces, only to hit his wards and reflect back once more at Callatas. The bolt of golden fire ricocheted back and forth between them, drawing in more power from the storm of sorcerous force burning over the island. Kharnaces shook off the dispelling effect, his wards flaring back to full power once more, and he gestured.

The bolt of golden fire exploded in a burst as bright as the sun. Transmuting power lashed in all directions, and Callatas glimpsed a flash of crimson as Kalgri sprinted out of the way, her shadow-cloak streaming behind her. A dozen undead warriors and baboons went motionless, transmuted into gleaming blue crystal, and for a moment silence fell over the hilltop.

Callatas tried to catch his breath, leaning upon the Staff of Iramis for balance. The arcane volleys he had leveled at Kharnaces would have been enough to destroy a hundred lesser sorcerers, but he had not even been able to break through the Great Necromancer’s wards.

Kharnaces, as far as he could tell, was not even straining. He was already undead. He had no stamina to exhaust.

“It is unavoidable,” said Kharnaces, lifting his hands as green fire burned around the skeletal fingers. Behind him the Conjurant Bloodcrystal spun faster and faster, green fires flickering and dancing in its bottomless black depths. The thing had kept growing, and now was nearly twelve feet across. “It is inevitable. It has already been achieved. The nagataaru shall devour this world, and your Apotheosis and new humanity will never come to pass. Lie down and accept your defeat, my wayward pupil, and your passing shall be far quicker.”

“No,” growled Callatas, pulling in power for a new spell.

“So be it, then,” said Kharnaces, thunder ringing over the hill as he cast a spell of his own.

###

Caina stared at the double ring of glowing hieroglyphs.

The spells burned before the vision of the valikarion, as complex and as potent as the spells she had once sensed upon Rhames’s Ascendant Bloodcrystal in Caer Magia or the Subjugant Bloodcrystal in the bowels of the Inferno. It was like looking at a tapestry made of fire, a tapestry where the threads kept weaving and reknitting themselves into different patterns of their own accord.

Caina raked her ghostsilver dagger through the outer circle, dragging the tip over glyph after glyph. The handle grew hot beneath her fingers, smoke rising from the gleaming marble of the dais, and then the first circle winked out.

“That was suspiciously easy,” said Morgant.

“Aye,” said Caina, wincing and shifting the ghostsilver dagger to her other hand. Gods, but it had gotten hot. She took a deep breath and started to drag it through the circumference of the inner circle.

“Why is that suspicious?” said Annarah. “Ghostsilver is proof against sorcery, even highly potent sorcery.”

“It is,” said Caina, watching the hieroglyphs wink out one by one, wisps of white smoke rising from the dagger’s blade. “But we’re not the only ones who know that. The Iramisians fought against the Great Necromancers and the Maatish for centuries.”

“Millennia,” said Annarah. “Both our nations were ancient, and our enmity deep. The Great Necromancers sought to enslave the world in the name of their gods, and we stood against them. The tales of the wars are…were…preserved in the Towers of Lore in Iramis.”

“Exactly,” said Caina. “So Kharnaces would have fought loremasters and valikarion. He knew what they could do, and he knew what a ghostsilver weapon could do. So he would have set up something to guard his canopic jars from a ghostsilver weapon. Some spell, some trap, some trick, something.”

There was a crackling noise, and the second circle vanished. Caina straightened up and stepped back, looking around. She didn’t know what to expect. Undead warriors pouring out of hidden niches in the walls, maybe. Some monstrous thing like an Umbarian cataphractus storming through the throne room. Maybe even a giant block of stone falling from the ceiling to crush her. No one ever looked up.

But nothing happened.

Morgant started to say something, and then a vibration went through the floor, some dust falling through the ceiling.

“Callatas and Kharnaces,” said Annarah. “We must hurry.”

“Yes,” said Morgant. “We ought to hasten so Callatas can hurry up and kill us.”

“Maybe,” said Caina, stepping back onto the dais. She squatted and considered the heavy block of marble that comprised the throne’s base. “Or maybe he’ll be too exhausted to deal with us.”

Kalgri might not.

Caina shoved all thoughts of the Huntress from her mind and concentrated on the problem at hand.

She saw the little stone door in the side of the throne. After her experience with Rhames she knew exactly how large a canopic jar was, and how large a container would be to hold seven such jars. The throne was more than large enough to conceal such a box. Given that the canopic jars were Kharnaces’s weak point, possibly the only weakness he possessed, Caina would have expected them to be better guarded than this.

As far as she could tell, there were no mechanical traps on the stone door. There was a potent warding spell upon it, and Caina suspected that anyone who touched it would be reduced to a withered corpse in an instant. Yet the spell, for all its power, was vulnerable to ghostsilver, and Caina eased the hot dagger into the gap between the stone door and its frame. She saw the spell shiver and start to collapse onto itself…

Purple fire flashed before her eyes, and Caina jerked back.

There was a nagataaru bound within the throne.

She lifted her dagger again, and saw that the nagataaru had rebuilt the warding spells upon the stone throne.

“What happened?” said Morgant. “You hit a trap?”

“No,” said Annarah, casting another spell. “I think…yes. There is a nagataaru within the throne itself.”

“Of course Kharnaces would not leave his canopic jars unguarded,” said Caina. “There’s a guard. A nagataaru, and it regenerated the warding spell.” She thought for a moment. “Annarah. Can you attack the nagataaru when it shows itself?”

“Perhaps,” said Annarah. She hesitated. “If I use my pyrikon to augment the spell, the nagataaru will discern my location.”

“Can you use mine?” said Caina.

“No, it’s bonded to you,” said Annarah, “but if you ask it to aid me…”

Caina nodded, beckoned Annarah closer, and grabbed the older woman’s wrist. “Aid her, please.” It felt odd talking to a bracelet, but the pyrikon was a living thing, not just a hunk of metal, and it had a will and mind of its own. It had helped her more than once, once it had understood what she needed. Like the nagataaru, pyrikon spirits did not have a sound grasp of the material world.

The pyrikon bracelet glowed, both to Caina’s eyes and the sight of the valikarion, and Annarah shuddered a little.

“I am ready,” she said.

Caina nodded and drew the dagger through the gap in the door, the weapon heating up again. She saw the spell start to collapse, the ward unraveling, and the purple fire of the nagataaru filled the gap. Annarah gestured, and white fire leaped from her hand to strike the side of the throne.

The nagataaru recoiled, and then retaliated. Purple fire pulsed from the throne, repelling Annarah’s attack and rebuilding the ward. The force of sorcery knocked Caina’s hand back, and she barely kept her grasp upon the smoking dagger.

“What happened?” said Caina.

“That nagataaru,” said Annarah. “It’s too strong, and the wards around the throne are too powerful. I cannot harm it.”

“And if I collapse the wards, the nagataaru just rebuilds them before you can strike at it,” said Caina, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach. “Morgant.”

They had no better luck with Morgant’s black dagger. The spells within the throne prevented Morgant’s dagger from cutting into the marble. Caina’s ghostsilver dagger could have unwoven the defensive wards, but unlike Morgant’s blade, Caina’s dagger could not cut through solid marble. With increasing alarm, Caina tried every combination of her dagger, Morgant’s blade, and Annarah’s spells that she could think of, but none of them proved effective. Every time, the nagataaru within the throne repelled the attack.

“Damn it,” said Caina, her frustration mixed with growing dread. She didn’t know how long Callatas could last again Kharnaces, but she suspected it would not be much longer.

“I think the nagataaru within the throne is the Harbinger itself,” said Annarah. “It is certainly as powerful as a nagataaru lord.”

“Isn’t the Harbinger inside Kharnaces?” said Morgant. “Neat trick if it can be in two places at once.”

“Those are Kharnaces’s canopic jars,” said Caina, wiping some of the sweat from her forehead. “He said that he was the Harbinger and the Harbinger was him. Likely their spirits have merged, so the Harbinger can defend the canopic jars. No wonder Kharnaces was willing to leave them in the throne.”

She desperately wished that Kylon were here. Apart from how much she missed his presence, he was the only one among them who stood a good chance against Kalgri. And the valikon would have been the perfect weapon for forcing open the throne.

Morgant snorted. “I suppose that’s just like Kharnaces.”

“What do you mean?” said Annarah.

“You remember what happened at the Inferno,” said Morgant. “For a man who wants to destroy the world, he’s entirely too fond of his little trophies.”

Caina blinked.

Trophies…

“If he destroys the world,” said Morgant, “he’ll destroy his trophies too. Were all the Great Necromancers so shortsighted?”

“Wait,” said Caina.

Trophies…

The memory of her dream on the ship blazed through her thoughts. Samnirdamnus had made a point of telling her that Kharnaces had liked to collect trophies, though most of his relics had been buried in the destruction of the Inferno. Yet Kharnaces had been trapped on Pyramid Isle for two and a half thousand years. Surely others had come to the island in that time, and Kharnaces must have killed some of the intruders. And some of those visitors must have carried items that Kharnaces would have kept as trophies.

Including, perhaps, items that Caina might find useful?

Else why would Samnirdamnus have gone to such trouble to mention it? Kharnaces’s trophies had already saved Caina’s life. Morgant had carried the damaged wedjet-dahn out of the Inferno, and Kylon had used that wedjet-dahn to help save Caina’s life in Rumarah.

Was there something similar in the Tomb of Kharnaces?

Caina looked across the throne room. On the far wall, she saw another archway, opening into a darkened chamber. No light penetrated the room, but the vision of the valikarion saw the gleam of several arcane auras.

“What is it?” said Annarah.

“I have an idea,” said Caina.

“Oh,” said Morgant. “You’re about to do something clever.”

“Or something stupid,” said Caina.

“The two overlap more often than you might think,” said Morgant.

“Come on,” said Caina. “Keep an eye out for traps.”

She ran across the throne room, Morgant and Annarah following her.

###

Another explosion ripped across the top of the hill, the thunderclap ringing over the island. Callatas screamed and poured all his strength and will into his wards, trying to hold his defenses against the hurricane of necromantic power that Kharnaces had thrown at him. The storm of necromantic force pressed against him, threatening to tear the life from his flesh.

At last the spell ended, and Callatas wavered upon his feet, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face to soak into his bloodstained robes.

It had taken all of his strength to hold back that attack. It was just as well that Caina had nearly stabbed him to death in the netherworld. It had forced him to drink Elixir Rejuvenata, making him young and strong again.

Without that renewed vitality, it was likely that the strain of the battle would have ruptured his heart by now. Even with his rejuvenated strength, Callatas was at the end of his stamina. It took all of his strength to hold back Kharnaces’s spells, and he had no power left to strike back.

Kalgri was no help. Bones littered the hilltop, some of them smoking from the backlash of spells. The Huntress was a crimson whirlwind of destruction, cutting down undead creature after undead creature, but still more and more of them came. None of them could touch Kalgri, and she kept them from swarming over Callatas, but she could not help him against Kharnaces. No doubt the Voice was screaming for her to do something, to find a way to stop the Harbinger, but likely Kalgri did not care.

He wondered what she would do. Maybe she would flee, but if the Conjurant Bloodcrystal expanded further, there would be no place to hide. Maybe she simply wanted to feed on Callatas’s death. That seemed likely.

For Callatas knew that he was about to die. He could not overpower Kharnaces, and if the Great Necromancer’s taunts were true, then Caina’s efforts were useless. Callatas was about to die, and the Apotheosis and the new humanity would die with him.

Unless…

His one possible hope of salvation rested against his chest, glowing with a pale blue light.

He had not dared to use the Star of Iramis since the day over a century and a half past when he had lifted it and called upon its power. With that power, he had destroyed his chief opponents, burning Iramis to ashes and binding the Court of the Azure Sovereign within the destruction, preventing the djinn from meddling with the Apotheosis. He had made no secret of the Star’s power, and that had become part of his legend. Who would dare challenge Grand Master Callatas, who bore the Star that had consumed Iramis in a storm of flame?

Of course, he had thought to find the Staff and the Seal in the ashes…and that miscalculation had led him here.

Yet despite the dark legend that surrounded him, he had never dared to draw upon the Star’s power once more. It had nearly destroyed him the first time, and in truth he had never completely understood what he had done. The Star was a source of immense power, a well of arcane strength, and tapping it had almost destroyed him.

Doing so a second time would certainly destroy him. And possibly Pyramid Isle as well.

But Kharnaces was going to kill him.

Callatas deflected another attack, his defenses sputtering and crackling, and prepared himself to draw upon the Star’s colossal might.

It was his very last chance.

###

Caina willed her pyrikon into its staff form, the pale white light falling over the chamber beyond Kharnaces’s throne room.

“By the Divine,” muttered Annarah. “There must be hundreds of them.”

It was indeed the trophy room of the Great Necromancer Kharnaces.

The first thing that Caina saw was the giant rack holding Hellfire amphorae.

They had to be Hellfire amphorae. The design was different, the neck a little longer, the handles broader, the sides inscribed with Maatish hieroglyphics, but the vision of the valikarion saw the furious power of Hellfire within them. Caina’s eyes flicked over the hieroglyphs upon the amphorae, the knowledge Kharnaces had given her translating the ancient symbols. Evidently the ancient Maatish had called Hellfire “the righteous avenging sword of the divine solar orb that rises in the radiant splendor of eternity”, but that was close enough.

The poetry was followed by a much more prosaic warning that urged extreme caution while handling the amphorae.

“How the devil did Kharnaces get Hellfire?” said Morgant. “Did Callatas make it for him?”

“No,” said Annarah. “The College of Alchemists once served the Great Necromancers of Maat. Hellfire was one of the weapons they manufactured for the pharaohs’ armies.”

“There we go,” said Morgant. “Dump an amphora of the damned stuff over the throne and we’re finished.”

“No,” said Caina. “The wards are strong enough to withstand even Hellfire.”

She took a few steps forward, raising her pyrikon staff, and asked for more light.

The pyrikon obliged, throwing its pale glow across the chamber. The trophy room was larger than the throne room. The stone rack holding the Hellfire amphorae dominated one wall. Niches lined the other three walls, holding various objects, and stone pedestals holding additional relics stood here and there.

Caina stepped closer, her eyes scanning the trophies. For they were indeed trophies. Many bore the marks of battle. She saw shields and swords and helmets of bronze and iron, all of them scorched or bearing marks of violence. One pedestal held a thick tome that looked like the Book of Corazain that Caina had dumped into the Alqaarin Sea, though this book was badly charred. There were golden ornaments, and she saw three more damaged wedjet-dahns, torques of gold and jade adorned with precious stones. Every single item in the room glowed with sorcerous power, and most of the pedestals and niches had been sealed with powerful warding spells.

“Do you know what any of these things do?” said Caina.

“Some,” said Annarah. “But none of them would be useful against the wards upon the throne. All of them are designed for sorcerous defense, not attack. Perhaps Morgant is right, and we should ignite a few of the amphorae next to the throne and hope for the best.”

“I doubt that will be enough,” said Caina. “I don’t think it would touch the throne, and we’d wind up burying it beneath rubble when the ceiling collapsed. We’d have an even harder time getting to it before…”

She fell silent. A gleam of silver caught her eye in a niche next to the racks of Hellfire.

No. Not silver.

Ghostsilver.

“Annarah,” breathed Caina, hurrying forward.

She lifted the staff, letting its light fall into the niche. Within rested a short sword in a scabbard of dark leather, its blade coming to a slight curve. It looked like a shorter version of the Anshani falchion.

Or the valikon that Caina had given to Kylon, which meant…

“I think,” said Annarah, “that might be a valikon.”

Caina nodded and lifted her ghostsilver dagger, scratching it along the edge of the niche. The ward sealing the niche was a powerful one, but not nearly as complex or potent as the one upon the throne. The ghostsilver dagger heated up, the ward flickering with gray light.

“Kharnaces wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a valikon lying around,” said Morgant.

“It’s warded,” said Caina. “Sealed away. And why should he be afraid of it? A valikarion must have come here years ago, before Callatas burned Iramis, and Kharnaces killed him and kept the valikon as a trophy. Kharnaces isn’t worried about me. He was worried about Callatas and Kalgri. But neither one of them would ever touch a valikon.”

The ward crackled and then snapped out of existence, collapsing beneath the ghostsilver dagger.

“So Kharnaces finally made a mistake,” said Morgant.

“Let’s find out,” said Caina, returning her ghostsilver dagger to its sheath.

She reached into the niche, grasped the hilt, and drew the short sword.

And it was indeed a valikon.

Iramisian sigils marked the blade, and they glowed as Caina lifted the weapon, the spells wrapped around the sword responding to the presence of the nagataaru upon Pyramid Isle. To her valikarion senses, it seemed like the sword had been carved from white fire, a glowing shard of light in her fist. Even to her mortal eyes, the blade was crackling with white flame. Kylon had spoken before of how the valikon had often seemed eager when facing nagataaru, as if yearning to fulfill its purpose.

Caina knew exactly what he meant.

“Since you are valikarion,” said Annarah, “it is only fitting that you do, in fact, have a valikon.”

“Then let’s put it to use,” said Caina, focusing upon her pyrikon. The staff collapsed back into its bracelet form, settling upon her wrist once more, but the valikon’s fire provided ample light to hold the gloom at bay. She reached into the niche and took the scabbard, hooking it to her belt.

“If we live through this,” said Morgant, “you’ll need to have the Kyracian teach you how to use that damned thing properly. I’ve seen you with a sword. Your technique is just appalling. Like watching a child trying to finger paint.”

She smirked at him. “If I live through this, there are other things I would like to do with the Kyracian first.”

Annarah let out a shocked little laugh.

Morgant rolled his eyes. “How surprising.”

“Come on,” said Caina, adjusting her grip on the valikon’s hilt.

She ran back into the throne room as another pulse of power blazed overhead, likely another exchange of spells between Callatas and Kharnaces. Callatas was still holding Kharnaces’s attention, which meant that Kharnaces might not notice the threat to his existence until it was too late. On the other hand, Callatas was still alive, and if Caina could smash the canopic jars with the valikon, Callatas would survive the duel and come for her.

Though with a valikon, she had a better chance against him than she would have otherwise.

Caina hurried onto the dais, knelt next to the throne, and thrust the valikon’s burning blade into the gap between the stone door and its frame. Once again, she saw the ward unravel beneath the touch of the valikon’s ghostsilver, saw the threads of the spell snap and shrivel.

Once again the purple fire of the nagataaru surged to rebuild the spell and repulse the blade…but this time the purple flame of the nagataaru touched the harsh white glow of the valikon. There was a furious hissing scream from the throne, and the shadow and flame of the nagataaru withdrew. Caina dragged the valikon through the gap, the warding spell buckling. Again and again the nagataaru tried to rebuild the spell, only to retreat from the fury of the valikon.

Then the spell collapsed. Caina wrenched the valikon free, the motion causing the stone door to fall loose from the side of the throne. She jerked back before the stone door could land on her feet, and it fell to the dais with a loud crack.

Inside rested a gleaming box of gilded wood, its side covered with hieroglyphs and images of Anubankh. It blazed with power to Caina’s senses from the preservation spells used to keep the wood intact, the mighty wards defending it, and the masses of necromantic power within it.

Seven masses of necromantic power, to be precise.

The canopic jars holding the preserved organs of Kharnaces.

Caina nodded, set down the valikon, and reached for the box.

“Is that safe to touch?” said Annarah.

“Probably not,” said Caina, pulling out the box. Gods, but the thing was heavy. The box itself was a cube about two and a half feet by two and a half feet. Likely most of the weight came from the stone jars within the box. “But the wards are designed to stop blades and spells and hammers. I doubt my hands would do much to it.”

She heaved, and the box slid onto the dais with a clatter as the jars inside bounced against each other.

“All right,” said Caina, picking up the valikon. “It’s time to finish this.”

“Maybe we should wait a while,” said Morgant.

“Why?” said Annarah.

“Because,” said Morgant, “if we wait, Kharnaces will kill Callatas and the Huntress for us. While I wouldn’t mind doing it myself, neither would I object if Kharnaces saved us the trouble.”

That was a good point. Caina might have a valikon now, but Callatas still had his mighty arsenal of spells. For that matter, if Kalgri survived, the valikon would do Caina little good. As Morgant had pointed out, Caina was not particularly good with longer blades. She would be better off giving the valikon to Morgant, as she had in the netherworld when they had rescued Annarah, and letting him wield it against the Huntress.

“On the other hand,” said Caina, “the longer we wait, the longer Kharnaces has to figure out that he made a mistake.” She looked at the ceiling. “And it’s a long way to the top of the hill. If we smash the canopic jars and run, maybe we can get off the island before Callatas can pursue us.”

Morgant laughed. “Leaving him stranded here? Elegant.”

“Maybe not,” said Caina. The thought of leaving Callatas with possession of Pyramid Isle was disturbing. What arcane secrets might he glean from the library? He might know the uses of the various relics in the trophy room.

“No,” said Caina. “No, we’ll smash the canopic jars, and then try to find and kill Callatas and the Huntress. We’ll ambush them like we did on the beach. It’s too risky to do anything else.”

“We are long past the point of assessing risks,” said Morgant, “aren’t we?”

“True,” said Caina, and she lifted the valikon and started hammering at the box, intending to shatter the wards upon it and break the canopic jars within.

Only to find that she could not.

The wards surrounding the box were potent, but not strong enough to withstand the power of the valikon. Yet every time Caina struck, the wards around the box rebuilt themselves. The Harbinger was bound within the box, and it was using its power to regenerate the wards as Caina damaged them.

“That doesn’t seem to be working,” said Morgant.

“Yes, I noticed,” said Caina. “Annarah.”

Together the three of them attacked the box using every method Caina could devise. Annarah struck it with bursts of white fire, while Caina stabbed at it using the valikon and Morgant used both Caina’s ghostsilver dagger and his own black dagger. It was all to no avail. No matter how much damage she inflicted to the wards, the nagataaru within it was able to regenerate the spells. For that matter, the valikon could not reach the Harbinger to do it any harm. The nagataaru seemed fused to the canopic jars, and the malicious spirit repaired the wards upon the box before the blade could reach it.

At last Caina lowered the valikon in frustration, trying to think of a way to get into the damned box.

“On the positive side,” said Morgant, handing Caina her ghostsilver dagger back, “Kharnaces might kill Callatas before we figure out how to open the thing.”

“It might not matter,” said Annarah.

“What do you mean?” said Caina.

“I’ve been watching how the wards react to my spells,” said Annarah. “I think Kharnaces was right. I think his soul really did merge with the Harbinger.”

Caina blinked, a fresh wave of dread rolling through her.

“Then Harbinger itself is guarding the box?” said Morgant.

“It’s worse than that,” said Caina. “If the Harbinger and Kharnaces’s soul have fused, that means smashing the canopic jars won’t do anything.”

“Why not?” said Morgant.

“Because,” said Caina, “if we smash the jars, the Harbinger will return to Kharnaces’s body. Which means to destroy Kharnaces, we’d have to destroy both his canopic jars and his body.” Another rumbling vibration went through the throne room, more dust falling from the ceiling.

“And Callatas can’t even do that,” said Morgant.

“Nor can we open the damned box!” said Caina, hitting it with the valikon in frustration. Again the Harbinger repaired the wards. She straightened up, trying to think. The key to defeating Kharnaces lay in that box. Caina just had to find a way to use that key.

“So if we destroy both the jars and Kharnaces’ body,” said Morgant, “can’t the Harbinger and his soul just seize one of the other undead on the island?”

“It’s not that easy,” said Caina. “The soul needs an anchor in the material world. So does a nagataaru, even a nagataaru lord like the Harbinger. Otherwise they’ll both be drawn into the netherworld, like iron nails pulled towards a lodestone. And it can’t be any anchor, either. It has to be one specifically prepared and attuned for the soul in question. Like these canopic jars.” She shook her head. “The Moroaica found a way around that. She had a spell that sort of…bounced her soul off the netherworld and into another body. Any mortal body she wanted. That’s how she wound up possessing me for a year.”

“You?” said Annarah, astonished. “You were truly possessed by the Herald of Ruin? Lord Kylon mentioned it, but I didn’t think…”

“Aye,” said Caina, something starting to stir in her thoughts.

Morgant snorted. “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“That was why she couldn’t be permanently killed in the mortal world,” said Caina. “Her soul would just rebound from the netherworld and inhabit another body. We had to kill her in the netherworld. We…”

She blinked several times, the buzzing at the back of her mind growing more insistent. She was missing something important, something vital.

“That was when Corvalis was killed, wasn’t it?” said Annarah in a quiet voice.

“Yes,” said Caina. She never liked to talk about that. Of course, Annarah knew enough to piece it together. Still, Annarah never liked to talk about her husband or sons, either.

Caina thought about the way that Corvalis Aberon had died…and the way the Moroaica had died for the final time.

“We had to kill her in the netherworld,” said Caina, “because if she was killed there, she couldn’t enter another body. Her spell bounced her spirit off the netherworld, but she couldn’t bounce off it if she was already there…”

Then the idea came together in her mind, and her eyes widened.

“Oh,” said Morgant. “We’re about to do some clever thing, aren’t we?”

“We might not be able to destroy the canopic jars or Kharnaces,” said Caina, “but we don’t have to do either. All we have to do is get the canopic jars into the netherworld.”

“That seems too simple,” said Morgant.

“No, it’s not,” said Annarah, growing excited. “Taking the canopic jars into the netherworld would break the link between the jars and Kharnaces’s body. That would pull the rest of the Harbinger into the netherworld, like a drowning man tied to an anchor…”

“And Kharnaces’s soul with it,” said Caina.

“That could work,” said Morgant. “Where are we going to find a gate to the netherworld? Can you open one?”

“Yes,” said Annarah, “but not right away. It takes at least a day of preparation to work the spell.”

“You don’t need to open the gate,” said Caina. “Kharnaces has already opened one for us.”

“The Conjurant Bloodcrystal?” said Annarah.

“I’ve seen it,” said Caina. “It’s a bloodcrystal, yes, but it’s also a gate to the netherworld. Like a wound in the walls between the worlds. I wouldn’t want to touch it, but I suspect anything that does touch it will be sucked into the netherworld.”

“What are you suggesting?” said Annarah.

Caina sheathed the valikon at her belt and looked at Morgant. “Grab the other end and lift.”

###

Callatas dropped to one knee, panting. He didn’t think that blood was pouring from his ears, but it certainly felt that way, and every inch of his rejuvenated body ached from the effort of channeling so much arcane power over so short of a time, from so many near misses when Kharnaces’s attacks had almost hammered through his defenses.

It would not be long now. His wards trembled like a rope holding too much weight, ready to snap at any moment. Kalgri bled from a half-dozen minor wounds, her movements slower and more ragged than they had been at the start of the fight. She had cut down dozens of the undead creatures, but there was no life force for the Voice to feed on, no source of fresh power for her. Sooner or later the endless waves of undead baboons and warriors would wear her down.

He should have used the Star when he had the chance. Now Callatas could not even manage that, not without abandoning his defenses. He did not even have enough strength left to call upon the Staff once more. In his desperation, he had considered using the Staff to escape to the netherworld, but that course was all but certain suicide. Rested and with his full powers, traveling to the netherworld would have been dangerous.

In his exhausted state, it would have been certain death.

All he could do was maintain his warding spells, and try to think of a way to prevail.

“Do you now see?” said Kharnaces. The Great Necromancer glided forward, his robes still pristine and white, his golden mask and bracers and torque gleaming. “Do you understand how this was inevitable?” The Conjurant Bloodcrystal whirled behind him, now thirty feet across, pulsing like a dead sun, green fire blazing along its circumference. “Behold the weakness of your flesh, the feebleness of your will, the impotency of your power. Humanity is a disease upon this world, and you cannot improve it. You cannot perfect it. And in the end, you do not even have the power to save the old humanity, let alone create a new one.”

Callatas tried to snarl out a defiance, but could not even draw the breath to do it.

It seemed that Kharnaces was right.

Another blast of necromantic fire snarled around Callatas's wards, and he almost died. Only a supreme effort of will kept his wards from collapsing. One more attack like that, and Callatas was finished.

“It is fitting,” said Kharnaces, coming to a halt a few yards from Callatas, “that you shall die with the old humanity you despised so much. In your own limited way, you grasped the truth. The old humanity is too corrupt to be saved. But there will be no new humanity.” Green fire whirled around his skeletal hands. “You have failed. There…”

There was a flash of something golden behind Kharnaces.

Callatas blinked, puzzled.

Three figures hastened across the hilltop, kicking aside the bones and armor of the destroyed undead creatures. One was Annarah, her pyrikon shifted back to its bracelet form. The other two were Caina Amalas and Morgant the Razor, and between them they carried a peculiar golden box adorned with Maatish hieroglyphics.

They ran right at the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, invisible to the nagataaru-possessed undead swarming across the hilltop towards Kalgri.

For the moment the sheer absurdity of watching the Balarigar and a legendary assassin haul a golden chest between them stunned Callatas. What the hell did they think they were doing? Looting the Tomb? The world was about to end, and they were stealing valuables…

Then Callatas realized what was happening.

Of course. Of course! It was obvious. Why had he not realized it sooner? A flare of desperate hope blazed within Callatas.

He looked back at Kharnaces. The Great Necromancer continued his endless lecture, while Kalgri whirled and cut and stabbed among the undead.

A distraction. Callatas had to distract him. Caina and Morgant were only a few dozen yards from the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.

“Wait!” said Callatas. “Wait!”

Kharnaces continued gathering power for the killing spell.

“You’re right!” said Callatas. “I see that now. You were always right.”

The undead upon the hilltop went utterly motionless. Kalgri stepped back, breathing hard, her blue eyes wide and wild, sweat covering her face. Callatas could not recall the last time he had seen her look so tired.

“You confess your error at the very end,” said Kharnaces. For the first time the Great Necromancer sounded less than serene. Now he simply sounded puzzled. “Why? For one hundred and fifty years you have pursued your futile course. Why change your mind at the end?”

“You persuaded me,” said Callatas, wishing Caina and Morgant would move faster. “With your eloquence. And power. You were always right. I can see that now.”

“No,” said Kharnaces. “This is an attempt to deceive me. But why? The Conjurant Bloodcrystal cannot be stopped. What use in deceiving me?” He fell silent for a moment. “Unless…”

Kharnaces turned towards the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, and saw Caina and Morgant and Annarah.

###

Caina’s arms and shoulders ached from the effort of hauling the box of canopic jars up the stairs to the top of the hill. After the first few hundred steps the effort had started to tell upon her.

The sight of the destruction upon the hilltop made her forget the ache in her shoulders.

Thousands of bones littered the hilltop, many of them charred and smoking. Patches of fire burned here and there, left over from the colossal energies that Kharnaces and Callatas had unleashed upon each other. Hundreds of undead creatures moved along the hilltop, converging upon Kalgri, who looked exhausted and wounded. Callatas himself was on one knee, leaning upon the Staff of Iramis for support, the Star of Iramis glowing against his chest. Kharnaces hovered a dozen paces from the Grand Master, his white robe stirring in the wind, his face concealed beneath the serene golden mask of a Great Necromancer. Titanic power swirled around Kharnaces, layer after layer of interlocking wards. Callatas was powerful, but Kharnaces was stronger, and would have been the arcane equal of the Moroaica or Rhames or the Sage Talekhris.

Yet even Kharnaces’s power was nothing next to the horrid might of the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.

It had swollen to forty feet across, and floated a few feet above the ground, spinning faster and faster. Thousands of hieroglyphs blazed upon its surface in green fire, disappearing and reappearing. To the vision of the valikarion, it was the most powerful thing she had ever seen, stronger than the Ascendant Bloodcrystal, strong enough to rip the world in half.

And yet, at the same time, it was a hole into nothingness, a rip in the walls between the world. Caina realized that the bloodcrystal had already begun its work, that it was simultaneously a mighty bloodcrystal and a tear in the barrier to the netherworld. It would grow and grow until it ripped apart the barrier entirely, and the nagataaru swarmed through to kill.

She urged herself a little faster, Morgant grunting next to her as he gripped the box.

“What is this?”

Kharnaces’s calm voice rolled over the hill.

“What utter madness is this?” Caina risked a glance backwards and saw the Great Necromancer’s mask turned towards her. Callatas stared at her, his expression livid with desperate emotion. Likely he had realized what she intended. Kalgri stared at Caina as well, though the Huntress only looked baffled.

“What are you doing, Balarigar?” said Kharnaces. “Your role has ended.” His serene confidence never wavered. “The time of humanity has ended, and you may rest from your labors.”

Caina kept going. Kharnaces did not consider them a threat, but the minute he realized what she planned…

“This resistance is futile,” said Kharnaces. “You…”

His voice trailed off.

Some of the glow from the Conjurant Bloodcrystal flashed off the box’s gilded lid.

Kharnaces might have been a Great Necromancer, and he might have been Undying for twenty-five centuries, but he still flinched in the moment of realization as violently as a living man.

“No!” he thundered. “Stop them! All of you! Stop them now! Now!”

Arcane power shone around him as he started a spell, and every single one of the undead turned and raced towards Caina and Morgant and Annarah.

But it was too late.

“Now!” shouted Caina, and together she and Morgant heaved, flinging the gilded box into the spinning globe of darkness. The box touched the dark sphere, and it was sucked into the bloodcrystal, hurtling away from them at a tremendous speed into an infinite black void. Caina caught a brief glimpse of the box tumbling away, seemingly hundreds of yards away, and then it vanished.

Kharnaces screamed.

The Great Necromancer threw back his head, his arms outthrust, and purple fire and shadow erupted from his hands and his head, shooting skywards like glowing pillars. Caina flinched back, fearing that Kharnaces was about to unleash his power, but his wards unraveled in flares of burning light. His body ripped itself apart in a spray of bones and torn white cloth and glittering gold, and a hooded wraith of purple flame and shadow hurtled across the hilltop, drawn inexorably towards the Conjurant Bloodcrystal. Within the hooded wraith Caina caught a brief glimpse of the image of Kharnaces himself, his face twisted with insane fury as he howled silent curses at her.

Then the Harbinger and Kharnaces’s spirit touched the Conjurant Bloodcrystal and vanished.

The Conjurant Bloodcrystal let out a tearing metallic scream, and it began to wobble. Strange bulges appeared on the sphere, like bubbles rising from its core, and as Caina watched, it began to shrink, compressing in on itself like her pyrikon did when it shrank from its staff form.

And like Kharnaces’s wards, the bloodcrystal was starting to unravel.

Kharnaces had designed it to destroy the world. Evidently he had not thought to design it to allow a nagataaru lord to pass through it. The flows of power within it were snapping apart and lashing around each other, and when it finally collapsed…

“Run!” shouted Caina, and she turned, Morgant and Annarah running with her towards the stairs. She could not see Callatas and Kalgri, not through the crowds of undead creatures, but she had no doubt they were fleeing for their lives as well.

Or they were coming to kill her and take the Seal.

The Conjurant Bloodcrystal blazed with green fire, the metallic scream growing louder.

“We won’t make it!” said Annarah, turning as cast a spell. A shimmering white ward sprang into existence around theme.

Caina grabbed Annarah’s shoulder with her left hand. “Help her!” Her ghostsilver pyrikon began glowing, its power aiding Annarah, and the warding spell grew brighter. Would that be enough? Caina didn’t know…

The Conjurant Bloodcrystal exploded.

Green fire consumed the world, devoured the hilltop and the sky and the jungles blow.

The fire struck Annarah’s ward like a thunderclap, and pain flooded through Caina. The ward held for a moment as the pulse of green fire passed it, and then collapsed. A wall of hot air struck Caina, throwing her backwards, and she hit the ground hard.

Everything went black.

Chapter 24: The Next Battle

Kylon saw a wagon and walked towards it, pulling off his armor as he did, followed by his sweat-drenched shirt. The marginally cooler air of the twilight felt good against his feverish skin, and he dropped his armor on the ground, keeping his grip upon his sheathed valikon.

Then he sat down, leaned against the wagon’s wheel, and closed his eyes with an exhausted sigh.

The fighting had gone on the rest of the day, with Tanzir’s men pursuing of the broken army of the Grand Wazir. Only when the sun had begun to dip behind the western horizon had Tanzir at last called the army back, summoning the men to make camp north of the ravine.

There was work to be done. The remnants of Erghulan’s army would flee back to Istarinmul, and Tanzir’s army needed to prepare for the siege of the city. There were hundreds of wounded men to be tended, and spoils to be taken from the enemy camp, though Kylon did not care about spoils.

There was work to be done, but Kylon just needed a moment to rest.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the wheel, breathing slowly. One of the men he had sailed with in the Kyracian fleet had liked to say that after a battle every man wanted a skin of wine and a woman. Kylon knew exactly what he meant. Yet he was too tired to bother finding a skin of wine, and the woman he wanted was hundreds of miles away.

Gods of storm and brine, he hoped that Caina was alive.

But he could do nothing for her now.

A rest. Just a moment’s rest, and then he would find something useful to do.

Kylon fell asleep, and in his dreams he thought he heard a familiar, sardonic voice.

“The silver fire,” murmured the Knight of Wind and Air, “is your only salvation…”

“Lord Kylon?”

Kylon looked up, his hand moving to the valikon’s hilt.

He hadn’t been asleep for long. Night had not yet fallen, but around him a score more wagons had parked, and dozens of large tents had been raised. Lady Claudia stood over him, frowning in concern, a waterskin in her hands.”

“Are you well?” said Claudia. “Were you wounded after Rhataban’s death?”

Kylon shook his head. “No. I just wanted to rest for a moment. I fear I may have fallen asleep.”

She snorted. “Yes, a grievous crime. You defeated a Master Alchemist in single combat, slew a score of kadrataagu, and saved the heir to the throne of Istarinmul, but you fell asleep after your exertions? Unforgiveable!”

Kylon smiled a little. “I had heard Imperial noblewomen were demanding.”

“You’ll forgive me after this,” said Claudia, passing him the waterskin.

“What is it?” said Kylon.

“Watered wine,” said Claudia. “I thought if you weren’t wounded, then you were likely thirsty.”

“Gods, yes,” said Kylon. He pulled away the stopper and lifted the skin to his throat. The wine was bitter and weak, but after the battle it tasted like the finest nectar ever served in the Tower of Kardamnos. “Thank you. That must have been a lot of trouble.”

Claudia laughed. “Actually, it wasn’t. Lord Tanzir asked me to help look after the wounded.” Her smile faded. “And there are a lot of them, alas. I came here to help set up the field hospital, and I happened to find you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Just a moment of rest,” said Kylon. He grunted and got back to his feet. “And I should rejoin Nasser and Laertes and the others. I doubt the Huntress is here at all. Nevertheless, I should guard Lord Tanzir and Prince Sulaman in case I am wrong.”

Claudia frowned. “Why do you think she is not here?”

“Because we won the battle,” said Kylon. “If she was here, she would have struck before the battle was lost. Then she could have gorged herself on the deaths as Erghulan slaughtered our army.” He shook his head. “She must have gone with Callatas to Pyramid Isle.”

Claudia nodded. “I feared that as well.”

“And I was a fool not to go with her,” said Kylon. “I should have insisted. I…”

“If you hadn’t,” said Claudia, “every last one of us would be dead. I know that is small comfort, but it is true.”

Kylon said nothing, but he managed a nod.

“I do understand,” said Claudia in a soft voice. “What is it to watch someone you love put themselves into danger again and again.”

“Aye,” said Kylon. Did she understand what it was to watch someone you loved die front of you, powerless to help them? Given how her brother had died, perhaps she did. He shook his head and dismissed the thought. “It is…difficult.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“And I also understand why Caina fell in love with you,” said Claudia.

Kylon blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Now that I’ve seen you with your shirt off, anyway.”

Kylon blinked at her, and then she burst out laughing at his expression. He realized that she was teasing him, trying to snap him out of his gloomy mood. He suddenly felt embarrassed, but he supposed that was the point. It was hard to wallow in gloom during a moment of acute embarrassment.

“How is your son?” he said, hoping to change the subject. He stooped, recovered his shirt and his armor, and started pulling them on.

“Well,” said Claudia. “Kirzi and her husband kept watch over him, thank the gods.” She sighed. “A battlefield is no place for a child. Or for anyone, really. I wish I could have kept him safe in Malarae.” Her green eyes grew troubled. “But I suppose none of us have gotten what we wanted.”

“Battleborn,” said Kylon, slinging on his baldric and adjusting the straps holding the sheathed valikon.

“I’m sorry?” said Claudia.

“You could call him Corvalis Battleborn,” said Kylon. “Like the barbarians of the northlands do, given that he was born on a battlefield.”

Claudia raised a blond eyebrow. “He was born in a looted shoe shop, I will have you know.”

“I know,” said Kylon. “I was there. And the city was a battleground at the time.”

“I suppose so,” said Claudia. “We’ll have to start calling him Corvalis Battleborn. I suppose my brother would have been pleased…”

She fell silent as a gaunt man in the bright robes of a monk of the Living Flame approached.

“Lord abbot,” said Claudia with a quick bow.

“Karzid,” said Kylon, his hand coiling into a fist.

“Lord Kylon,” said Karzid with a bow of his head. “A great victory. After watching Rhataban fight, I did not think anyone could overcome him. But you did.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. “What do you want?”

“The Emissary,” said Karzid, “requests the honor of your presence.” His face twitched a little. “Politely. Not to command, not to threaten, but to counsel. If you will hear her.”

Kylon let out a long, irritated breath. He did not want to talk to the Emissary of the Living Flame. Yet she had given him good advice before the battle. If he had not realized how badly Rhataban had been enslaved to the lusts of his nagataaru, Kylon might not have found the stratagem that had let him defeat the Master Alchemist.

“Fine,” he said. “Lady Claudia, thank you for the wine.” She nodded. “Let me know if I can be of assistance.”

He followed Karzid through the assembling camp, the monk walking in silence. Around Kylon the soldiers raised their tents, their mood celebratory. They had taken on a superior army and beaten them, sending the enemy running to the safety of Istarinmul’s walls. Kylon supposed Strabane and his warriors would be raising a many a cup to their victory tonight.

Come to think of it, he might join them.

A boot crunched against the turf, and Kylon felt the familiar presence of an elemental spirit. He turned as Mazyan stepped out of the gathering gloom, his usual scowl in place. There was no trace of the injuries that Rhataban had inflicted. Evidently the powers of the djinni included quick healing. Kylon envied that. The sorcery of water allowed him to heal quickly, but not that fast.

On the other hand, he would heal faster than the men lying wounded in the hospital tents, so he would not complain.

“Exile,” said Mazyan.

“Mazyan,” said Kylon. “Is Sulaman in danger?”

“The Prince is safe,” said Mazyan. “I sense no other nagataaru nearby. I do not think the Huntress is pursuing the Prince.”

“No,” said Kylon, his grim mood returning. If the Huntress was not pursuing the Prince, then the Huntress was likely on Pyramid Isle.

“Thank you,” said Mazyan. He looked as if the words had caused him pain. “I could not have defended the Prince alone, and therefore would have failed in my duty without your aid.”

He offered a stiff bow and then departed.

“That was astonishing,” said Karzid, blinking.

Kylon looked at the monk.

“Oath Shadows are heavily influenced by their djinn,” said Karzid. “The djinn of the Azure Sovereign’s Court are devoted to duty. For an Oath Shadow to admit that you helped him in his duty…it was the highest possible compliment he could give.”

“If your Emissary doesn’t send me on some wretched errand of doom,” said Kylon, “then I’ll buy him a drink or three when we return to Istarinmul.”

Karzid opened his mouth, and closed it again, and then decided on silence.

Wise of him.

They entered the Emissary’s tent. She had obtained a new table from somewhere since Kylon’s last visit. The monks had lit a pair of braziers, filling the tent with flickering light. The Emissary sat in a camp chair, her expression distant and pensive. She rose as Kylon entered, and Karzid moved to her side.

“Lord Kylon,” said the Emissary. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. “I had help from thousands of others. You should thank them, too. What do you want of me?”

“No tasks,” said Emissary. “No burdens I lay upon you, Kylon of House Kardamnos. Instead I have news, and a warning.”

“News,” said Kylon, staring at her.

A wave of cold dread rolled through him. Suddenly he was certain, utterly certain, that she would tell him that Caina was dead, that she had fallen to the Huntress’s blade while he had fought Rhataban.

He was so certain of it that her next words caught him by surprise.

“I believe the Balarigar yet lives,” said the Emissary.

“You do?” said Kylon. “How?”

“As a valikarion, she is immune to my sight,” said the Emissary. “Yet she still pulls and warps the threads around her. This very evening I saw a great distortion in the tapestry of the world. For a moment all hung in peril of destruction…and then it did not. I believe the actions of the Balarigar averted this disaster.”

Kylon said nothing, thinking about what she had said. It did not mean that Caina was still alive. It seemed that she had indeed found a way to stop Callatas from delivering the Staff and Seal to Kharnaces. Yet what had happened? Had she killed Callatas? Had Callatas slain her?

Then he knew what to ask.

“You still see her altering the threads of the future,” said Kylon. “That’s why you think she is still alive.”

“You judge correctly,” said the Emissary. “Which means I must now warn you.”

Kylon said nothing, waiting.

“I foresee a point in the future when the warping effect of the threads ceases, when the Balarigar is slain,” said the Emissary. “At that point in the future another thread crosses hers, a thread heavy with the blood of the innocent…”

“The Huntress,” said Kylon, his sword hand curling into a fist once again.

The Emissary nodded. “You have already slain one nagataaru lord. One greater and more cunning than Rhataban comes for the Balarigar. Your path has crossed the Huntress’s path before, and it shall cross hers one more time. You must face the Huntress again, or she will slay the Balarigar, and the world shall die.”

Kylon remained silent, his fist tight as he fought to keep his anger under control.

“Let her try,” he said in a quiet voice. “I promised Caina I would meet her again in the House of Agabyzus in the Cyrican Quarter of Istarinmul, and I will do it. I do not care if I have to kill a thousand monsters like the Huntress, if it takes the rest of my life. I will keep my promise.”

“Yes,” the Emissary in a quiet voice. “You shall.”

Kylon nodded. He would find a way to save Caina from the Red Huntress, no matter what it took.

Even if it cost his life.

Chapter 25: The Final Pact

Callatas drifted through nothingness, his exhausted mind flitting through memories.

He saw again Iramis, a city of towers wrought of white and gold, its walls gleaming in the sun. The seven Towers of Lore, housing the Words of Lore the Divine had given the first loremasters in the deeps of time. He remembered studying there, remembered passing the trials and becoming first a loremaster of Iramis and then one of the high loremasters. How proud he had been! Iramis was the height of human civilization, mankind’s defender against the abuse of sorcery and the malevolent spirits of the netherworld, and Callatas had become part of that grand and glorious tradition.

But as the years passed, and his reputation and power grew and he became known as Callatas the Wise, he had grown wearier and more cynical, tired of the constant scheming and plotting of the kings and lords and princes, weary of the endless parade of the suffering who sought aid from the loremasters of Iramis. No matter what Callatas did, no matter how hard he worked, it was never enough. There was always more suffering.

Then the day when the girl had come to him for help, and he had unknowingly sent her to her death…

Callatas had understood after that.

There was no hope for humanity. There was nothing perfectible about humanity, save their nature as killers, as hunters. In a blazing moment of rage and fury and madness Callatas understood. Civilization corrupted mankind, and he would strip away civilization. He would create a new kind of man, one who needed nothing that civilization offered, one who needed neither food nor drink nor shelter, one that could be perfected…

Long he had sought for the sorcerous secrets to work such a feat, until his search at last led him to Pyramid Isle and Kharnaces…and Kharnaces had told him of the nagataaru and the Court of the Azure Sovereign, two kingdoms of spirits locked in warfare without end.

There, at last, Callatas had found his answer.

The century and a half after that blurred before his eyes.

Nasser refusing to give him the Staff and the Seal after he had stolen the Star from Iramis.

Iramis burning as he lifted the Star aloft, the firestorm annihilating the oldest civilization upon the face of the world, the Star’s colossal power threatening to consume him as he forced it into the channels of his will.

The experiments, the endless experiments as he sought to perfect wraithblood, the tens of thousands of slaves dying in his laboratory as he sought the proper formula. The screams never stopped in his laboratories. The searching, the endless searching, as he scoured the Iramisian ruins dotting the Desert of Candles for where Annarah might have hidden the Staff and Seal.

Callatas also remembered the voice.

It was not a voice, not really. Death did not have a voice. Agony and torment could not speak in words. Alien hatred beyond the capacity of the human mind to comprehend could not form speech.

Yet if they could, they would sound like the voice that Callatas had heard on the day he had first attempted to summon a nagataaru, the day he had made his pact with Kotuluk Iblis, the sovereign and lord of the nagataaru.

The day the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis had filled him.

And now the voice of the shadow thundered through his skull once more.

CALLATAS.

He recoiled in fear, some of his memory starting to return. There had been a battle atop the hill, a duel of mighty sorcery. A gilded box thrown into the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, and then green fire everywhere…

YOU HAVE PREVAILED.

It seemed that he was still alive.

How astonishing.

THE CONTEST BETWEEN MY VASSALS IS DECIDED. THE VOICE HAS PREVAILED, AND THE HARBINGER IS DEFEATED. ALL IS IN READINESS. TAKE THE SEAL AND THE STAFF. THE PATHS OF THE NETHERWORLD ARE NOW OPENED TO YOU, AND YOU MAY RETURN TO YOUR STRONGHOLD IN ISTARINMUL.

Callatas felt himself drift towards consciousness. He was lying on his back, he realized, the Staff of Iramis still clutched in his left hand. The air was hot and wet, a sea-scented breeze blowing over his face.

RETURN TO ISTARINMUL AND COMPLETE THE APOTHEOSIS. FULFILL OUR PACT AND SUMMON ME TO THIS WORLD.

Yes. The Apotheosis.

Callatas had promised this world to Kotuluk Iblis, but he had no intention of completing that pact. Instead he would use the nagataaru, harness them as mankind had harnessed the horse and the ox, and use them to create a new and perfect humanity.

The malicious amusement filled his skull like choking smoke from a fire. Kotuluk Iblis knew his plans. Kotuluk Iblis knew every thought Callatas ever had, every memory, every emotion. The sovereign of the nagataaru knew and did not care. He thought he would triumph in the end.

But it would be Callatas, not Kotuluk Iblis, who won the final victory.

YOU HAVE PREVAILED. TAKE THE SEAL AND RETURN TO ISTARINMUL. WORK THE APOTHEOSIS AT LAST. FULFILL OUR PACT, AND GIVE ME THIS WORLD.

The shadow exploded through Callatas’s mind, filling him with agony, and he jerked awake.

His first thought was that he should have stayed asleep.

Every inch of his body ached, and he was utterly exhausted. After a moment he managed to get his eyes open, and he saw a pale blue sky overhead, shading to pink and yellow to the east. The sun was coming up.

Callatas sat up, leaning upon the Staff for support, and saw utter devastation.

Bones littered the hilltop, many of them charred and still smoking. Where the Conjurant Bloodcrystal had floated was now a blackened crater, the air above it still rippling with heat. Nearby Callatas saw the mask of Kharnaces, half-melted from the explosion. He couldn’t see any trace of Caina or Annarah or Morgant.

Maybe the explosion had killed them. A fitting end for the Balarigar, given how many things she had burned down.

Callatas grunted and heaved himself to his feet, wobbling a bit as he caught his balance.

A second vista of devastation greeted him.

Pyramid Isle had died. Once the white hill had been encircled by miles of lush green jungle. Now the jungle was dead and withered and crumbling. He realized it was the backlash from the destruction of the Conjurant Bloodcrystal. It had killed every living thing on Pyramid Isle. His residual wards had been enough to protect him, but he doubted anyone else had survived. Well, that made his task easier. He just had to find Caina’s body and relieve it of the Seal.

A boot rasped against the ground, and Callatas whirled, almost losing his balance.

“So,” hissed Kalgri. “You survived.”

The Red Huntress limped towards him. She looked as terrible as he felt. The left side of her face was a mass of hideous burns, and dried blood, all of it her own, marked her crimson armor and tattered clothing. She walked with a sharp limp, grimacing with every step. The Voice was healing her wounds, but very, very slowly. Likely the nagataaru was just as exhausted as its host, and Kalgri would need to kill a few people before she regained her full strength.

“Yes,” said Callatas. “I…”

He had turned around too fast, and his stomach rebelled. Callatas doubled over and threw up, his stomach heaving. When he had finished, he forced himself up, wiping his mouth on the ragged sleeve of his robe. Kalgri watched him with a mix of disdain and amusement.

“Dignified, father,” she said.

He was too tired to get angry.

“Where is Caina?” he said. “Do you know?”

Kalgri shook her head, the burns upon her face tightening. “I don’t know. I woke up a few moments ago and decided to look around. The Voice can’t sense anyone nearby, but it’s too drained to do anything useful at the moment.”

“We must find the Seal,” said Callatas, looking over the hilltop, making sure to do it slowly this time. “And…”

He fell silent.

The Seal lay upon the ground thirty yards away, its blue stone giving off a faint glow.

All he had to do was pick it up, and he could finish the Apotheosis at last.

###

“I am now almost entirely certain,” murmured Samnirdamnus’s voice, “that you are the one I have sought for all these years. We will be seeing each other very soon now.”

Caina jerked awake, breathing hard.

For a moment she could not remember where she was and what had happened. Kylon, where was Kylon? Had something happened to him? Had…

Her mind dragged itself back into focus, and she remembered all of it, Kharnaces and the Conjurant Bloodcrystal and the titanic explosion that had gripped the hilltop.

Evidently she had lived through it.

Caina pushed herself up, shadow-cloak stirring around her shoulders. As far as she could tell, she was uninjured. She looked around the bone-strewn ground for Morgant and Annarah, but could not find them. Caina turned, looking for her friends, checking her belt as she did. The valikon and the ghostsilver dagger were still in their sheaths, but one of her belt pouches had been torn away, and…

Alarm stabbed through her.

The Seal was gone.

She turned, looking through the vision of the valikarion, and spotted the Seal about thirty yards away, burning with power. It must have fallen from her belt in the explosion.

Then her gaze met the gray eyes of Grand Master Callatas, standing on the other side of the Seal, Kalgri waiting at side.

He, too, had survived the explosion.

For a moment they stared at each other. He looked exhausted and broken, a defeated man. Yet his gray eyes still glittered with familiar madness.

“You don’t have to do this,” Caina heard herself say. “It’s not too late. You can still turn back.”

Slowly, slowly, Callatas shook his head. “No. I have come too far. I will not turn back now. Not when victory is in my grasp.”

Then Callatas began casting a spell, and Caina broke into a run, reaching for her weapons.

THE END

Thank you for reading GHOST IN THE PACT. Look for Caina's next adventure, GHOST IN THE WINDS, to appear in the second half of 2016. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Other books by the author

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About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, USA Today bestselling author Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here, or watch for news on his Facebook page or Twitter feed.

Table of Contents

Description

A brief prologue

Chapter 1: Secrets In Plain Sight

Chapter 2: One Last Time

Chapter 3: The Blood Is The Key

Chapter 4: Memory Trap

Chapter 5: The Pact

Chapter 6: Exiled

Chapter 7: Negotiations

Chapter 8: Rebels

Chapter 9: Relics of Maat

Chapter 10: The Master Alchemist

Chapter 11: Heresy

Chapter 12: Emissary

Chapter 13: Ambush

Chapter 14: Valikarion

Chapter 15: A Second Pact

Chapter 16: The Grand Wazir

Chapter 17: My Motives Were Pure

Chapter 18: Fire With Fire

Chapter 19: Safeguards

Chapter 20: Immortals

Chapter 21: Master and Disciple

Chapter 22: Bearer Of The Last Valikon

Chapter 23: Conjurant

Chapter 24: The Next Battle

Chapter 25: The Final Pact

Other books by the author

About the Author